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Orifihiol bif John DeCamp. 

THE RECLUSE. 



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Mountain tOalK^ 
of a *Keclu>se 



By rev. e; c?. burr 



Illustrated from Originals by JOHN DeCAMP 
Foreword by MAY S. GILPATRIC 



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NEW YORK 

BroadwaLV Publishing Coiinpak.i\y 

1903 



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Copyright, 1903, 

BY 

P;T5V. E. C. BURR. 



* e 






TO MY MOTHER. 

Marie L. Burr. 

West Haverstraw, September 17, 1903. 



Come up Hither, and I will show thee things 
which must be Hereafter. — Revelation iv., i. 



ILLUSTRATIONS. > 

The Recluse Frontispiece 

Page. 

Ageweight Hills 23 -^ 

Philip Ageweight 47 '^ 

Mrs. McDonald 74 '^ 

Cardinal Brook 87 • 

Harold Anderson 184 ^ 

The Sentry-box at Monksrest 239 • 

Stephen Monroe and Harry Phillips , 247 " 

Glen of the Whippoorwills 262 ^ 



FOREWORD. 

Who, among those who dwell in cities for 
pleasure or profit, does not at some season of 
the year, feel that indescribable longing, mag- 
netic, irresistible, for the country ! 

'Tis Nature calling us : ''Come, and see, and 
partake of my riches !" Tangible and intangible 
she holds them forth with prodigal hands. Here 
are the birds, the fruits, the flowers, the radiant 
sunshine for one ; the wind, the frost, the snow, 
the majestic gloom for another, — something 
for everyone who seeks with ''the seeing eye." 

But those, alas ! are so few. We are so wan- 
tonly blind to all these wondrous master-works ! 
We crowd with delighted eagerness, to view a 
bit of painted canvas or woven tapestry, yet 
carelessly trample on a gorgeous Autumn leaf 
and barely note the matchless tints of the sun- 
set sky. 

Still, one among us may stoop, and with ten- 
der hand brush away the dead leaves of Win- 
ter from the tiny green thing — the first-born of 
Spring — and read God's promises in every day's 
life and death. The brain is the note book, the 



iv Foreword. 

heart the pen, and the love of the Creator, the 
inspiration which gives to us such a book as 
this — a book, ahve, breathing, speaking to us 
of the Life that is in us, and around us, every- 
where, if we will but look and see. Perhaps 
we may be able to do this but superficially, as 
beginners in the great study of God's universe, 
so to us the "Recluse" gives the Nature-pictures 
he has so lovingly portrayed, and makes us his 
companions in his ''Mountain Walks." 

What an atmosphere of leisured and literary 
meditation pervades every page of the book — 
much of the dignified, scholarly ease of the Lake 
Poets who sang when the world was sweeter 
and kinder; an atmosphere which we drink in 
with the consciousness that this life of domes- 
tic simplicity, of innocent pleasures, of high and 
reverential thinking, lived close to Nature's heart, 
is the true life — and that all else is wrong, and 
inadequate, and mean. 

The end comes, and we lay the book aside. 
The city's ceaseless roar drifts into the distance ; 
the smoke haze fades away, and we stand in 
the sunlight's golden tracery under the wal- 
nut trees; the scent of summer is in the air, we 
hear the jubilant bird-songs and our souls are 
uplifted to the hills ''whence cometh peace." 

May S. Gilpatric. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



I. 

August 15, 1899. 

'Tis August now, and Nature's tired and worn. 
The joy, the freshness, the full life of June, 
The bobolink's exhaustless floods of tune 

No longer fill the fields at break of morn. 

Few birds are heard save in the rustling com, 
Where quails, not seen, in flute-like notes com- 
mune. 
The aftermath, dew- jewelled o'er, is strewn 

With flowers that died ere harvest heat was born. 

The buds, the blades, the fragrant blossoms yield 

To full and golden ears on every field. 

The grain ; the sickle ; work complete ; repose. 
Our weary Mother Earth shall soon have rest, 
Soon fall asleep on Indian Summer's breast. 

As softly as the petals of the rose. 

I sat 'neath the Monastery yesterday, Wallie, 
and wrote the enclosed sonnet while listening to 
the hot songs of the locusts. I send it with the 



2 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

hope that it may be a vital breath to you in the 
dust of your work. Full August reigns. The 
time for which we have longed since last Febru- 
ary is come. The year is in its full majesty of 
strength now, its fullest revelation of splendours, 
its supreme mystery of contemplation. I look 
upon the sky, and the far-off hills, and the fields 
all bright with new grass, and the words of S. 
Bernard's old hymn come to me — "What radiancy 
of glory!" It is the one month of all the year 
that veils the hills and the forests with a languor 
of purple haze ; it gives an anaesthetic for the 
world's pain, and in its beatific calm we feel the 
very presence of God. And there is not that 
death-dealing rage in the heat of the sun that 
makes July so terrible. The clouds have none of 
the wild ravings of March ; the wind has softened 
all its Niagara crash of music unto the melodies 
of a flute ; the birds are as dignified as a House 
of Bishops, while in June they were as full of 
mischief as choir boys. The Spring lifted its 
bluet-gemmed baby clothes and splashed its feet 
in the rollicking waters of the brook ; but to-day 
both the brook and the Summer have acquired 
the decorum of middle age. The frail blossoms 
of Easter-tide bent 'neath the weight of an honey 
bee : but now the Cardinal-flower and the Eupa- 
torium and the Purple Loosestrife are a very 
riot of colour. It makes one strong just to see 
the vigour of the flowers that make the swamps 
so gorgeous. I am at Monksrest, in the midst of 
the Woodsia Ferns, and the blue jays scream all 
round. Young Harry Phillips is with me, and is 
arranging a bunch of Cardinal-flower that is in 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 3 

the first beautv of Its youth, Hke himself. We 
are going now to Caltha Swamp, where the lad 
hopes to find a yellow orchid for you. The old 
gardener here has given us a half dozen stalks 
of tuberoses, and our nerves are drenched with 
their intense sweetness. 



II. 

August 16, 1899. 
Harry found the yellow orchid for you, Wallie, 
and brought it to me this morning in the hush 
and fragrance. I am writing this on the hills ; 
sitting among the ripening brakes, just above 
the wall of rock, so black with LJmbilicaria 
lichens. After a talk with the old hemlocks, I 
am going to our dear Caltha Swamp. The Au- 
gust light as it broods over Tor Lake is as drowsy 
as the odour of poppies. It is 10 A. m. I am in 
the swamp, sitting on the fence, so old and 
grey with moss, and the long ribbons of sunshine 
drift and float round the towering oaks that 
breathe a benediction of peace. Harold Ander- 
son's mother has just passed, on her way to the 
valley with a basket of huckleberries, so large 
and sweet, a veil of soft purple on every berry 
like the dreamy radiance of the haze all round 
me. I like her face, so old in patience, and like 
the passionless calm of the rocks among v/hich 
she has lived so long. She was at Mass at the 
^lonastery, the Festival of the Transfiguration, 
the 6th of the month, and gave me a copy of a 
new Collect used at the service. It is this : 



4 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

God, Who didst lead Thy Son, Jesus Christ, 
up into the Mount with chosen witnesses, before 
whom He was transfigured — with countenance 
hke lightning and raiment white as snow ; grant 
that we, with HEm, may toil up through the 
heights of suffering, and in the midnight of the 
soul's release be transfigured with His Eternal 
Health and Godhead ; through Him, who liveth 
and reigneth with Thee and the Holy Ghost, ever, 
one God, world without end. Amen. 

1 thought you might like to know it. I hear 
the snap of twigs, and Mrs. Anderson is coming 
back, glad with the joy of knowing that her sick 
friend appreciated the berries. She gave me 
some money and wished me to get Thoreau's 
"Walden" for Harold. To-morrow will be his 
birthday. 



ni. 

August i6, 1899. 
Right after lunch I ran into the city, Wallie, 
and got ''Walden" for Mrs. Anderson, and have 
just taken it to her. Harold was home, and she 
gave it to him before me, and he was just radiant 
with delight, and so was she. I know the book 
will exalt them both. I went into their old 
garden a mom.ent, beneath the steep grey rocks ; 
and memory brought back the daffodils that 
softened the harsh air as I stood there last April. 
Now I am resting in our old haunts in Caltha 
Swamp, and the hush saturates me. The shad- 
ows have deepened since I passed through an 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 5 

hour ago, and I wait, thinking that a whippoor- 
will may be lured into song. And I shall not be 
disappointed ; over and over again a dear monk 
in his cloister chants his primeval vespers ; and 
on all sides his fellows take it up, and answer 
with plaintive counterpart of song. The sun has 
just gone down into the red sea of fire in pur- 
suit of the sped minutes and hours and centuries. 
Alas, they can never be brought back ! But who 
would give the surety of Canaan for the past 
slavery of Egypt ! I pause at Cardinal Brook, 
where a stalk of its own glorious flower cries to 
me with siren voice : but I must wait — it is too 
late to trust the swamp now. The Clethras pour 
out their souls' prayers on the dew-drenched 
night, and a last locust sings ere hanging his 
harp among the flowers until morning. He left 
a sharp trail of resinous song, and now all is 
still. It is a silence too holy to break even by 
the worship of the whippoorwills, and I think of 
that verse in The Revelation — "There was silence 
in Heaven half an hour." As I go on my way, a 
crow flies from out the hemlocks at Brow-wait, 
and I am sorry to have disturbed my friend. He 
probably had been reading Thoreau, who praises 
God for crows that keep out of gun-shot. He 
could have staid, though, with safety : I would 
as soon lift a weapon against a blossom. Just 
here a hot hissing meteor lights up the night and 
trails its splendours through the sky — a light- 
ning messenger from a dead star. I stop at the 
spring, and drink from Its star-lit waters, and the 
hills breathe Good Night. 



6 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

^- IV. 

August 17, 1899. 
Good morning, Wallie ! I went to the Monas- 
tery of the Walnut Trees to-day, and the dear 
old Father Abbot, who received us so graciously, 
let me in, and I sat with him an hour in that fine 
east window, listening while he read a chapter 
from an old botanist on orchids. It was so 
lovely there. A pearl mist of dewdrops lay on 
the hush, and, though so late in the year, the 
grass was brilliant with the first loveliness of 
April — so restful to pilgrim feet. The asparagus, 
too, of the garden, as we sat there, was billowy 
in the breeze, and in its dark-green, fringe-like 
foliage the dewdrops flashed with stars which 
the sunbeams were persuading to go with them 
to heaven and reign there in the light. Beneath 
the window a bed of lobelia lifted its spires to 
the blue, and seemed to tell that the teachings 
of this holy place will keep souls loyal to Heaven. 
I told the Abbot so, and he answered me — "O, 
sir, it takes but a little cloud and shadow to stain 
the glory of the sun." He spoke with a quiet 
vehemence that told me there must have been 
some time in his life an exquisite sorrow. He 
had Mrs. Dana's book, "How to Know the Wild 
Flowers," and told me he had been showing a lad 
what Mikania Scandens is, and sent him out be- 
neath the walnuts to find it. He must be fond of 
purple ; for his cassock was girded with it, his 
desk covered with purple cloth, and some ex- 
quisite purple .wistaria in a vase jvhere he had 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 7 

been writing. I asked of him permission to go 
into the chapel and kneel a moment in the sacred 
Presence of the altar ; and when I left he gave me 
"Benedicite" with that beautiful smile, and 
said, ''Never fail to come to the Mon- 
astery when on the hills." On the way 
to the long avenue I found a young mother 
with her two-year-old boy, who tottered up 
to a lusty wild carrot and stood there, as if 
measuring which were the taller. And the lad 
had it by half a head. A crow sent this feather 
to you. I am down the hills now, and feel that 
I have left the deep anodyne of their peace there 
in the calm and hush. Harold Anderson wants 
me to sup with him. 



V. 

August 22, 1899. 
I did not go to the Monastery this morning, 
Wallie, but to Caltha Swamp, where you and I 
have found so much pleasure since that inspired 
30th of April. I sat and watched the sun shoot 
golden arrows through the shade, and heard the 
soft voices that spoke from the water, when pres- 
ently a well-known voice from the Monastery 
spoke the accustomed "Benedicite" of their greet- 
ing. It was Father Alax out with Halle to find 
the Twisted Stalk, and I joined them, for you 
know how long I have searched for it and not 
found it. I fared no better this time, nor did 
they; but I went back with them to the Monas- 
tery, and read to the Abbot, continuing "The 



8 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Bride of Lammermoor," the book I found him 
reading yesterday. ''It is a pity Lucy's father 
had not a man's decision," commented his rever- 
ence. ''He had not grit enough for a nun." After 
the reading I went out to Needle Rock, looking 
down unto where the wild carrots spread her maj- 
esty's lace on the fields. The sunflowers made a 
wall of gold in the Monastery gardens, and a few 
last primroses transfigured the light with their 
spotless lives. Near me some women were picking 
blackberries, and a young mother had laid her 
babe on a bed of ferns in Cleft Rock. A brilliant 
leaf, like crumpled translucent gold, fluttered 
down near to him from a butternut tree, and he 
clutched it with dignified solemnity. Then he 
talked and cooed to it ; but I fear the dainty 
visitant did not understand the babe, for it re- 
mained impassive, with no response whatever. 
The shadows were lengthening when I left, and 
the mother with her sweet one was safe at home 
in the valley. She waved to me from her door. 
Yesterday I went out into that beautiful pastoral 
country beyond the South Mountains, and re- 
turning stopped at the cottage of a Mrs. Gar- 
dener, on the Glad Stream Farm, to drink from 
the spring. She saw me and insisted that I must 
come into the house. I did so, and sat and ate 
the pink centre of a whole watermelon ; a large 
one, too, and there could not be a finer. As we 
chatted together, looking out on the fields of the 
soft aftermath burning with cone flowers, she 
told me the history of a former owner of the 
farm. He was a hard, selfish man, and was 
never known to g:ive so much as an apple or a 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 9 

bunch of grapes to a child. One day a thunder 
storm drove him to take shelter in the Monastery 
chapel, where service was being read. He sat 
and listened to the words of the Old Book, which 
a priest read with quiet reverence and solemnity. 
The lesson was from the 12th of St. Luke, and 
contained the Parable of the Rich Fool. It 
startled him. He thought of it all the way home, 
and for days afterward. He dreamed of it ; could 
not get it out of his mind. He had toiled and 
slaved and worn his life away for years ; and for 
what? For just a burning hell of dollars; that 
was all. His neighbours called him "Old Clutch 
Hard." Be sat alone one night before his hearth 
and dozed. Presently he started up. What was 
it? Nothing but a dream. He fell asleep again, 
and this time he woke convulsed with horror, and 
with a ghostly feeling that some one was in the 
room. And why w^as he so sure that he had 
heard a voice? At length the fearful thoughts 
passed, and he slept the third time. The candle 
flickered with its last strength ; the maple leaves 
that had burned at noon like fire-brands flitted 
against his windows with fateful whisperings ; 
from afar the thunder growled on the ominous 
night, and the lightning tore the blackness. He 
started to his feet with a shriek. The candle is 
gone out. A form stood before him, wrapt in 
the cold steel of the lightning, and the voice that 
had tormented him for weeks speaks above the 
thunderings of the storm : ''Thou fool ! this 
night thy soul shall be required of thee !" 

The morning breaks in splendours, but the 
lord of the estate still sleeps before the ashes of 



io Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

his dead hearth. He is gone to the Great Ac- 
count, Mrs, Gardener finished her story, and 
then Herbert, her son, came in and took me to 
his room to see his books. His mother gave him 
"The Temple Shakespeare," forty vohimes, in 
red leather, for his twenty-first birthday July 12. 
He thinks it ought to be an incentive to greatness 
of character, being born on the day when Julius 
Caesar was born. I told him it was Thoreau's 
birthday as well, and that I would give him the 
Journal of the great recluse if he would come to 
my library. I read him Mark Antony's funeral 
oration as we sat in the windows of his quiet 
room, so cool and white, and with a strong scent 
of mignonette from a vase on his desk. His 
windows look out on a hill that was thick with 
cone flowers, that shone like burnished copper. 
I supped with them, and at 9 he drove me home 
through the woods, all resonant with katydids. 



VI. 

August 23, 1899. 
The laurel hedge near the front of the Monas- 
tery was purple with morning-glories to-day, 
Wallie, I went so much earlier than usual. A 
cereus, too, that blossomed late in the night, lin- 
gered in its loveliness, seeming to know by in- 
tuition that a last worshipper was coming. The 
Abbot sat In the porch, looking off beyond the 
walnuts unto the slumbrous, velvety depths of 
air. He invited me to a seat with him. Mass was 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. ii 

just over, and he smiled as he saw me gaze into 
the soul-depths of that exquisite flower. He gave 
me a yellow orchid that Halle Seton found in 
the swamp below the walnut glade. I had a 
cup of coffee and a bit of toast with him and 
Father Max and the ''Attic Philosopher." ''The 
Philosopher," with the recklessness of youth, 
knocked a watermelon from the table. The 
library shook, and so did Halle, and the Abbot, 
with assumed severity, told him that football 
ought to be played out of doors. The melon was 
sent by Philip Ageweight, whom I think you 
know, and Halle went down to thank him and 
to spend the morning with him under his glorious 
oaks. They are fast friends, and Halle always 
finds a cordial welcome there. This is how it 
came about : One day, as Halle was returning 
from a trouting expedition, he stopped there and 
asked for a glass of w^ater. It was given, and 
then Philip, who was alone that day, asked the 
boy to read to him, as he was recovering from a 
fever and could not use his eyes. He read him the 
morning paper, and some of Keats' poems, and 
finally picked up the Bible and read that majestic 
ninth chapter of St. John's Gospel, in which the 
Christ opened the eyes of a man who was born 
blind. It went straight to the young man's heart, 
like hot burning coals through the snow ; and 
Halle read it over again, and then again at his 
new friend's eager request. When he was well 
he confessed the Christ before the world, and 
has been a devout and constant communicant ever 
since. I read with the Abbot all the morning 
Wordsworth's poems, and that sonnet in particu- 



12 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

lar on S. Mary, witH its noble exaltation of 
womanhood. Halle came back at noon with some 
delightful peaches from Philip's orchard. 



VII. 

August 25, 1899. 
There were a number of Indians visiting the 
Monastery to-day, Wallie, and there were tents 
for them under the trees, where, long years ag*o, 
their fathers ruled. I talked with one of them, 
and he told me how those wide leagues of glory 
were all theirs in the dim past — he gestured 
with the circle of his tawny hand — ^but the Great 
Spirit had given them all to His white children, 
to make the world great with Christ. The trees 
all round were cut with tomahawks ; the flints 
had yielded arrow-heads and other instruments 
of death ; the water of the brook was once 
stained with blood ; the winds sobbed through 
the forests, telling the deaths of warriors ; the 
mighty hemlocks, said the chief, held in their 
speechless bosoms the story of many a ghastly 
battle-field ; "but now it's all Christ's," he added, 
*'and we are Christ's, and yet there are blind 
white men who preach that Christianity is not 
true ! Indian no think much, but Indian know." 
And after this he said no more, but a bird filled 
the hush with such an untroubled Te Deum of 
song. I noticed the old chief held a prayer-book 
in his hand, open at the Festival of the Incarna- 
tion, and I thought how the hands of his ancestry 
would have been ready, with Herod, to destroy 
the Babe of whom that Gospel tells. The Abbot 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 13 

came and led his dusky friends into the refectory 
with, ''Come now, my children," and it was touch- 
ing to see those stalwart men stand and use the 
holy sign over the gifts which God had blessed 
to their use. I said Mass on the festival, as I 
told you, that is, yesterday, but I cannot tell you 
of it till we meet. Padre. 



VIIL 

August 28, 1899. 
I am back at my desk again here in the valley, 
after my work at the Monastery. I had seven 
services in all, and said Mass, too, this morning 
at 7 before comiing down the hills. How near 
to Him it all seemed ! Just the two lights burned 
on the altar, and all was so fresh and sweet. It 
seemed as if the world were just created, and 
that there could not be such a thing as sin and 
stains, and broken hearts and ship-wrecked lives. 
Two of the Reverend Sisters were at Mass, on 
a visit with the dear folk at Forest Glen Farm 
for fresh air and health ; but none of the Fathers 
were there, all away for mission work in the 
towns far and near. I am so much in love with 
the work here that I find it hard to leave. The 
place has its own atmosphere of culture, and 
books, and scholarship, and holy lives. I like 
the hard oak floors, the wide halls, the rooms 
always full of light, and the curtains — whether 
of russet, or Indian red, or purple I could never 
tell. It lifts one into a new environment, and 
puts the world so far away, to go into the Chapel, 
where the lamp burns continually before the Pres- 



14 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

cnce of the dear Christ. I sat with the Abbot in 
the Hbrary, looking out to Cleft Rock and 
Cathedral dome ; we were waiting for the break- 
fast that good Mrs. Bruce was getting ready. 
The brook near by, with its slow current, widens 
into a beautiful little lake of sunshine silences, 
with all its marge flower-fringed, the soft, lus- 
trous beauty of the Indian arrow-head, Sagittaria, 
with its triune whiteness. Mrs. Brace comes in 
with the breakfast — a cup of coffee, a pitcher of 
cream, hot muffins and a half dozen ears of de- 
licious sweet corn steaming through a linen cloth. 
I left shortly after the breakfast, and met my 
dear H'arry going to borrow "A Gentleman of 
France" from the Abbot. I waited for the lad, 
and we came down the hills together. Oh, a 
stretch of lobelia was so blue as we entered the 
Way of the Winds ! It seemed as if all the 
strength of heaven were concentrated there. The 
day is hurrying on, and when the shadows begin 
to build their phantom towers, Halle and Philip 
and Herbert are coming down to sup with me, 
and go back under the guidance of the stars. 
Just here a harvest apple falls on the porch : I 
wish I could send it to you. Am going out now 
to drench my nerves with mignonette. 



IX. 

August 29, 1899. 
Halle and Philip supped with me last night, 
Wallie, as I told you. Herbert was to have 
come, but his work took him to the city for a 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 15 

couple of days. We had a peach short-cake, an 
omelette, a dish of spiced crabs, a cup of coffee, 
sponge cake and peach cream : a nice Httle sup- 
per, I know you will say, and so it was. After 
supper Philip and I lounged on the porch and 
smoked, while Halle and my dear mother played 
chess. Halle has promised Philip that he will 
not smoke until his twenty-first birthday, and 
Fve never known the lad to break his word. I 
climbed the hills this morning for my walk to 
the Monastery, and as I entered the hall the old 
clock struck 7. The Abbot, coming in at that 
moment, told me that it struck the glad hour 
when the ink on the Declaration of Independ- 
ence was scarcely dry. You see, it is very old. 
Soon its voice will be hushed ; and I thought hew 
soon this full August of manhood's strength will 
pass, and we wait the summons from that vast 
To-morrow ! The books will be opened, and 
that Voice will ask, "What hast thou done?" 

The old Indian chieftain is still there, and we 
sat under a Rose of Sharon tree^ and I read 
him from Ecclesiastes, chapters 11 and 12. He 
was silent a long while, and then answered, with 
a touch of triumph in his voice : 'T am so near 
unto the Great Consummation !" 

The whole place was glorious with blossoms, 
even the mountain rocks. All the fences, the 
trees and the sunflower stalks in the garden — all 
twined and swathed and overrun with morning- 
glories. Halle had filled vases with them for 
the Abbot's desk, and the good Father turned the 
lad and his lessons over to me, saying he would 
not have the heart to scold after all that purple ; 
but the lad had good lessons, and when I told 



1 6 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the Abbot, he said he fears the purple burns my 
breast also. Philip is a fine spur to the boy, and 
keeps him up to concert pitch in all his work, 
notwithstanding the hot weather. Harold and 
I are going to Monksrest to-night, trusting to 
hear a whippoorwill. The old gardener there 
has invited us. To-morrow the Monastery will 
be full of "Fresh Air" boys. Goodby. 



X. 

August 30, 1899. 
Well, I have been to the Monastery again, 
Wallie, and long before I reached it, the glad 
voices and the shoutings and echoings among the 
hills told that the holy house was doing another 
of its many deeds of the Christ's work. A great 
number of boys, in twos and threes and dozens, 
scouring the mountains, met me on my way, and 
won me by their courtesy and deference. Ages 
all the way from ten to twenty-five. About an 
hundred of them ; climbing trees, running races, 
picking flowers, fishing the still streams, the 
flush of June starting in their pale faces. What 
handsome fellows they will be at the end of two 
weeks ! It is well that August is lavish with 
gifts of flowers, else there would not be a blossom 
left on the hills. One lad met me, and was tug- 
ging a bushel of wild carrots. He called them 
roses. I told him that they belong to the Um- 
helliferae, and he answered me that he, too, had 
an umbrella, but had left it home, I smiled at 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 17 

the unconscious rebuke, and made no further use 
of scientific names. At noon they all come back 
to lunch, with appetites like bears, and then out 
again to find the strength and the beauty of 
health. Nothing to do these two weeks to come 
but what they please. The Chapel was crowded 
with them when the next Hour was read, and I 
wish you could have heard them sing the hymns 
of Holy Church. They threw into them all the 
enthusiasm of their games. I read to them from 
Cooper, and they listened with everything else 
forgotten, so interested in the Indian tales of 
these same old hills. After the reading, I read 
them "The Last of the Mohicans :" they wanted 
me to take them out for a walk, and I took them 
to the "Avenue of the Ghosts of the Leaves," and 
told them how an Indian woman said that the 
souls of fallen leaves pass into the frost crystals 
until the Spring return. We went down the 
hills, then into the valley on the other side, and 
as we passed "Forest Glen Farm" the owner of 
the estate stood with his son in the porch. They 
pointed to a musk-melon patch in a field near by, 
and told me to take the lads in for a feast. There 
were fifty melons less when we left, but the gen- 
erous owner will be remembered as long as the 
dear lads live. 



XL 



August 31, 1899. 
It is the last day of Summer, Wallie. It comes 
upon me as a great solemnity. I have said over 
and over again this morning the words of the 



1 8 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Prophet Jeremiah, 8-20 : ''The harvest is past, 
the summer is ended, and we are not saved." Ah 
me ! I see from afar the cataclysm that will 
overwhelm all this summer world with death. 
The mountains were resonant with echoes as I 
climbed this morning, and seemed glad to have 
their great silences broken up. The leaves begin 
to feel the influence of the great sunset of the 
year; encrimsoned with the mystery of decay 
that has touched the hem of their garments. No 
such thought, though, was suggested by the 
faces of the rollicking lads that thronged the 
flower-fringed avenues. Some of them were just 
coming in from Caltha Swamp, and were loaded 
down with grapes ; others were helping unload 
three barrels of harvest apples, that our friend 
of ''Forest Glen Farm" had just brought them. 
So large and fair, such a creamy yellow and 
flushed with red, and the whole place spicy with 
their fragrances. Mrs. Bruce, the house-keeper, 
looked on, and said as I bade her good-morning, 
that the barrels would be "licht enough by nicht 
to raise a batch of bread." One enthusiastic 
young botanist of about fifteen had a lot of mush- 
rooms, which he took to the Abbot and told him 
that I said they were "mush-melons." The Abbot 
laughed and said the lad had made "mush" of 
my botany, and I think he had. I took them to 
the Warrior Rock, and they put their hands on 
the stone to feel the beating of the hearts of the 
warriors who were turned into stone. In the 
silence the locusts and the squirrels and the blue 
jays filled the trees with the choruses of their 
glad life, the only sound that answered the listen- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 19 

ing boys, but it satisfied them. I told them then 
how the Indian maiden, for betraying" her friends, 
was turned into the brook that makes its way 
down through the black shadows of the hem- 
locks ; and one of the lads, with more muscle 
than imagination, said : ''They made soup of 
her." I said no more. In the beginning of my 
note I spoke of "The Saved." Do you know 
who 'The Saved" are, Wallie? Well, here is a 
sermon in fifteen words : They are those divine 
pptimists who have learned how great is God's 
love for men. I wish you could see how the 
Dittany touches every path with purple. 



XII. 

September i, 1899. 
I heard low, soft voices as I approached Caltha 
Swamp this morning, Wallie, and found two 
Indian women on their way to the Monastery. 
As they rested they whispered a hymn to the 
Mother of God. Yes, I know you would like to 
have it, so I send it. I took it down as they sang : 

"Sweet mother of Eternity, all hail ! 
Hear, Mother of Hiigh God, a woman's wail. 
Upon thy bosom press the child I mourn, 
From suffering flesh to Life Eternal borne. 
Keep him thine own, until this world's Release 
Shall bid a home-sick mother's Calvary cease." 

I looked upon their bronzed, patient faces, and 
thought how many would gladly exchange their 
unrest for the calm, sure faith shown bv these 



20 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

reverent children of the forest. September Hes in 
swaddHng clothes this morning, and as the moun- 
tain voices spoke to me, and the silences were 
sifted through with dust of pearl, I thought how 
little this new-born daughter of Eternity knows 
of the wild storms that will make her reign 
desolate! A last anemone of April has blos- 
somed in the cool moss, and spreads its petals at 
the new month's feet. How faithfully this dear 
flower stays with us all the Summer, and the 
hypoxis, and an occasional bluet! Week after 
week they have looked me in the face, demanding 
a ready homage. All the visiting lads were 
crowded into the Monastery Chapel for mass, and 
they had taken the dear Abbot's advice, had put 
the enthusiasm of their games in the Creed and 
the Gloria in Excelsis. Oh, they sang with such 
gladness, careless of the coming days of man- 
hood's responsibilities, and the loveliness of the 
lost Eden seems to have found a resting place in 
their fine eyes ! I read to them from "The Bonny 
Brier-bush" for an hour, and then, after lunch, 
went with a party of them to the fields beyond 
the Caltha Swamp — the fields that you call *'The 
Vineyard" — and where, the lads tell me, there 
are tons and tons of grapes, and they ought tO' 
know. I sat -and read near that Ostrich Fern in 
the swamp, but they went among the grapes— 
not wild grapes alone ; a gentleman, learning 
where they were from, loaded them down with 
Concords and Madeiras, and sent a basket of the 
finest Delawares to the Abbot. The scent clings 
to me. I feel saturated with it. We left our 
trail on the hills as we returned. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 21 



XIII. 

September 5, 1899. 
It was late when I left the JNIonastery yester- 
day, Wallie ; and as I left the long avenue of 
hemlocks an old dame met me, and said : "You 
are late to-night, Father. Eh" — with a shudder — 
"it will be a coarse nicht on the hills. I trust ye 
will not meet the Old Man of the Mountains." 
And she crossed herself as she looked into my 
face with apprehension. I told her I had no 
fear, and on I went through the gathering gloom, 
with the lightning telling the day's death on the 
clouds. I had reached Brow-wait stone with no 
further thought of the old woman's fears : when 
they were recalled by the figure of a venerable 
man resting there, a pale torch burning at his 
side. "You are late, like myself," I said, and he 
answered : "Will you go with me ?" And the 
light flashed on his face as pale as a corpse. "I 
am not from the world beyond," he answered my 
inquiring looks, "but one who has lived alone, 
long years, here on the steeps of God, a student 
of all the Glory of Heaven that lies round. I 
am old, indeed, as folk say, for I stood in the 
full strength of manhood when the eighteenth 
century was swathed for burial. I have lived 
more than an hundred and thirty years." Here 
he rose, and I followed the old scholar with rev- 
erence to his house, an old vine-covered cottage 
just back of the lightning-splintered trees on the 
left, as we go to the Caltha Swamp — an house 
which but few know and fewer visit. The door 



22 Mountain^Walks of a Recluse. 

opened Into light and warmth and cheer : a fire 
of pine knots burning gloriously on the hearth 
and filling the spacious room with fragrances. 
I stood breathing the scent, and admiring a vase 
of coreopsis on his desk — that wondrous com- 
bination of the richest yellow and chocolate — 
when his house-keeper knocked at the study door, 
glad the master had returned before the storm. 
She is a Mrs. McDonald, some fifty years of age, 
a sympathetic voice, and a whole world of kind- 
ness and hospitality in her face. 



XIV. 

September 6, 1899. 
The old scholar invited me into his dining- 
room, where Mrs. McDonald had prepared a 
dainty supper. Just as we were seated, the good 
madam heard a knock at her kitchen door — 
two of the boys of the Monastery, asking shel- 
ter from the rain. She admitted them, and the 
master invited them to sit down with us. They 
were very glad : I think they found the rain 
a good excuse. After supper, they came into 
the study for his blessing and good-night, and 
then they went into the kitchen to talk with 
their generous mother. The master dived into 
a hole and found a bottle covered with the spi- 
der silk of a century, and from it poured a choice 
wine that we sipped, as we sat before the fire 
in his study. He told me that he had seen me 
examining flowers many a time this last Sum- 
mer, and thought it might be a pleasure to us 




())-i(jiii(il hi/ John DeC'anip. 



As-eweig"ht Hills. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse, 23 

both to sit and talk of the things in which we are 
both interested. Then he showed me flowers that 
he had picked in the Christ's Gahlee — hepaticas 
from Nazareth, bluebells Ifrom the Alps, or- 
chids from Brazil, coffee-blossoms from India. 
He has been a great traveller. A Cereus was 
expanding at one of the windows, and I went 
to examine it more closely, when a frightened 
"quack, quack, quack" at my feet told me that 
I had disturbed a tame white duck, one of the 
old scholar's pets. I stooped down and made 
my apologies, for I am fond of that par- 
ticular bird, Wallie, as you know. l\Iy host 
opened his guest-chamber, showed me a bed like 
a drifted whiteness of snow : and told me that 
I would find a welcome there, and so much bet- 
ter than struggling home through the blackness 
and the rain. I thanked him : went to bed : 
watched the dreamy embers on the wall : soothed 
by the sweep of the wet vines across the win- 
dows — and did not wake until the sun was pour- 
ing the health and blessing of day into the 
room. I stayed until noon, busy with old fo- 
lios and treasures of botany, and was sorry when 
it was time to come down the hills. I have the 
privilege, though, to go again. 



XV. 

September 10, 1899. 
Father Max sat on the porch this morning 
when I reached the Monastery, and said he was 
so sun-burned that he could hardly tell day from 



24 Mountain Walks of a Recluse, 

night. He looked so vigorous and full of health : 
I know he will do a militant work this Fall. I 
sat with him in the clear, strong air that had 
almost a touch of the sting of the first frost, 
and he told me of his recent mission work tO' 
the mountain folk some miles away. He told 
in particular of an experience that shows how 
a man's whole life can be radically changed in 
a moment. A man of wide benefactions among 
men gave him $ioo toward the Monastery fresh 
air work, and in giving it, told him that twen- 
ty years before he would not have given a hun- 
dred cents. He had a Carnegie's talent of ac- 
quisition and a real love for every dollar that 
he acquired. His home was hard and cold and 
comfortless : in his hoarding he denied himself 
unto the extreme. He sat one night in the ghost- 
ly flame of a candle and the pulseless ashes of 
his hearth, and lifting his eyes suddenly, he 
found that another man was with him in the 
room. 

"What are you doing here : didn't I drive 
you away, and tell you I had nothing for you?" 

He recognized a poor fellow who had appealed 
to him that morning, being hungry and out of 
work. There was no answer; but an overpow- 
ering influence from the Stranger held the miser 
under its thrall. 

"Who are you, anyway?" 

That Other stretched out His hands and they 
were scarred! 

The miser fell at His feet as dead, and when 
he waked to consciousness his wounded God 
was gone. It was all a dream, but from that 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 25 

hour, the man has been noted for the widest 
charity and benefactions among them that need. 
I took a cup of coffee with the good priest, 
and then he asked me to go out with him among 
the hills. We found a group of boys beneath 
the walnuts, near that little lake all radiant with 
pond-lilies, and one of the lads was Harry's 
younger brother. He gave me a beautiful smile, 
and his handsome face and the sunshine on his 
yellow hair left on my mind a brightness that 
made me think of when the rainbow touches the 
earth with gold. It was a pleasure to me all 
the rest of the day and satisfied me. I associate 
the lad's beauty and the Christ's words — "Of 
such is the Kingdom of Heaven," and it strength- 
ens me in the things not temporal, but eternal. 
Harry is back from his vacation and will take 
supper with me to-night. 



XVL 

September ii, 1899. 
I climbed the hills at sunset, Wallie, and was 
at the Monastery overnight. It was the last night 
there for the boys who have been storing up 
health and beauty among the hills these last two 
weeks. They had fitted up the long reception 
room for some private theatricals, and the place 
was crowded from far and near, all eager and 
interested to see what the lads could do. One 
little fellow spoke ''Mary had a little lamb," 
and in a touch of stage fright, he made the state- 
ment that 'The teacher turned him inside out." 



26 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

It made a great burst of applause, and he left 
the stage in just a blaze of glory. One young 
man with fine face and manner recited that scene 
from "King John," between the King and 
Hubert. He looked a king, too; and Halle, 
who was Hubert, so threw himself into the 
meaning that he looked the very villain he 
personated. The line "Out of my sight and 
never see me more" was given with superb 
meaning and passion. A lady gave him a 
bunch of hot-house "John-quills," she called 
them, and told him to put a feather in his 
cap. They all left this morning at 9 with 
cheers and sobs and wet eyes, and it seemed as 
if all life had gone with them. Not even a 
cricket chirped in the brush after they were gone. 
One little lad took with him a tame white duck, 
and as they drove down the Way of the Winds, 
it gave a farewell "quack, quack, quack," — and 
that even seemed a lamentation. Ah, the year 
has gone far forward in its days, and soon will 
hold the Christ Child unto its withered heart! 
Then in the purple warmth of the hemlocks, the 
wind will chant the requiem of its Nunc Dimit- 
tis. I sat a moment at Brow-wait in the sun- 
shine, and was glad to have a crow caw a word 
of cheer. From Brow-wait I went to Pulpit 
Rock for blackberries where there are some still, 
large and very ripe and sweet. I met Harold and 
took him with me, for we can enjoy each other's 
companionship in silence. The dim aisles and 
the softened light, and the moist leaves under 
foot and the smell of rich gums and ripening 
nuts and grapes were to us an infusion of new 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 27 

life. The Dittany with its calm beauty was 
everywhere, and minghng with its soft fringe, 
th« purple bells of the Gerardia. The leaves 
were like golden coins strewn around. I am 
back now in my old garden and its subtle fra- 
grances of Mignonette. 

XVII. 

September 12, 1899. 

an indian-summer legend. 

'Twas in the time of many moons agone, 
• And on a crag of towering mountain heights, 
Within an earthquake-sculptured chair of stone, 

A dying Chieftain sat — an Indian old. 
His tribe around the withered monarch stood, 

And cried : ''O Father, bless us ere you die !" 
He stretched his arms with yearning to the sun. 

And strowed the hemorrhage of its fire abroad 
Upon October's woods. And from that time, 

The encrimsoned forests hold his legacy, 
And breathe its benedictions o'er the world. 

Harry and I were at Monksrest yesterday even- 
ing, and he told me the legend of old Indian 
chair. I told him I would put it into verse. I 
have done it, and think you would like a copy. 
You should have seen the beautiful flush on the 
lad's face when I read it to him. He took me 
into his garden beneath the mountains to see 
the Northern Spies that are reddening in the 
sun, and we sat awhile in the light and the shad- 
ows and the perfume of the tuberoses that bor- 



28 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

der the paths. I never saw so many, and they 
have the full opulence of summer. The subtle 
fragrance strikes me, and I feel as if brought 
into contact with a divine presence. It is so 
warm to-day, and all the trees with their pol- 
ished foliage are so green : it does not seem pos- 
sible that we are so near the equinox. The 
hills, too, are full of blackberries : that long, hard 
cylindrical berry, and so sweet. For a month 
now, all round Pulpit Rock it has been full of 
them, and Mrs. McDonald of Ageweight has 
made two gallons of wine. How the quality of 
the berries changes, as the summer advances ! 
There was something about the wild strawber- 
ries as ethereal and evanescent as the flush of 
the rainbow. Then came the raspberries : some- 
what more substantial. And now, the blackber- 
ries — corporeal, sensuous, of the earth with no 
suggestion of anything beyond. And so^ bitter! 
It is the myrrh, perchance, to swathe the year for 
burial. 



XVIII. 

September 14, 1899. 
The mountains rang with glad shouts this 
morning, Wallie, as I approached the Monastery, 
and all was bustle and hurry — ^the school-boys 
have come. Some twenty-five of them— their ages 
from fifteen to twenty and upward. Express 
wagons stood at the doors, and others rumbled 
over the avenues, while the boys were busy look- 
ing after their trunks and "personal defects/' 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 29 

as one glad fellow said to his chum. They gath- 
ered round me, and one of them asked me the 
name of a stalk of mountain mint that he had 
picked on his way from the station. I told him 
the scientific name — Pyciiaiifheinuiii : and when 
I added the translation of the word — "thick- 
head," one of them slapped him on the back with : 
*'How fortunate, Tom, that right off you should 
stumble on a thing so appropriate." Soon the 
wagons were gone, and the trunks all taken in, 
and the boys putting their rooms in order — or 
disorder, shall I say? with ten times more noise 
than was necessary, but even that, I appreciated. 
While waiting for lunch to which I had been 
invited, I strolled into the garden, where a lad — 
to forget that he was homesick — was busy dig- 
ging worms for a flock of noisy ducks. Vest 
off, a snow-white shirt front, a crimson bicycle 
cap on the back of his head, his face flushed 
with the exercise, a "Cicero's Orations" on a 
bench nearby, and the gentle waddlers quacking 
that he was the most practical scholar of his time. 
He stopped his work, and we sat a while under 
the morning-glories : the purple blossoms showed 
heaven in their hearts, a rose-bush dropped crim- 
son at our feet, and a timid rabbit feasted on 
a pear. In the scent and the hush and the beau- 
ty, the lad found solace. The first time in his 
sixteen years that he had been away from his 
mother a day. He showed me her picture in 
his watch, and I told him not to be ashamed of 
his home-sickness, for if he find not Heaven in 
his mother's heart and face, he will find it no- 
where else. Here a robin thrashed down 



30 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

from a maple, looked at us and then at a delicious 
caterpillar with ''What's that? Give us a taste." 
And he appropriated the whole personality of 
the worm to line a red-breast that has never 
seen a snow-flake. The ducks looked disap- 
pointed, and could not tmderstand how they 
could have missed such a dainty morsel. 



XIX. 

September i6, 1899. 
Harry and I walked to the Hemlock Valley 
yesterday evening, Wallie, and as we went 
through the rye stubble, the sun flushed it into 
pale gold, and a flock of bluebirds lighted near 
us. Such brilliancy and warmth of colour, and 
every one had a song. I took the lad home with 
me and kept him all night We had a restful 
little supper of fried oysters and waffles, and a 
cup of golden-brown Java and Mocha coffee. 
Then we lighted the hearth-fire and the can- 
dles in my study, and enjoyed the sense 
of cloister quiet that comes with the first clos- 
ing of the house in the evenings of approach- 
ing Fall. My mother and the lad played a game 
of chess, and then I read them the Battle of 
Waterloo from Victor Hfugo's "Les Miserables." 
We left this morning before it was light, for 
I wanted to be at the 6 o'clock Mass, and as 
we reached Harry's, we saw a light drifting down 
the black mountain-side; drifting slowly, and 
ever low'er and lower, and burning with bril- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 31 

liancy, and shooting spangles of stars. I waited 
at the spring, and it was Father Alax on his way 
to the valley with some medicine, a morning star 
of health to some poor sick folk. After he had 
passed, I went on my way, and climbed the 
hills to kneel at the altar and cry with that old 
wrestler of Genesis — ''I have seen God face to 
face !" After ]\Iass we had coffee and hot rolls 
in the library, and a pot of lovely purple violets 
blossomed in the window. The mountains were 
full of glad voices, and some boys were picking 
hazelnuts near Cleft Rock. The sun shot golden 
arrows : but their sting was gone and a fire on 
the hearth supplied the heat that the year has 
lost. As I left, I found Halle and the lad of 
whom I told you yesterday coming in from a 
walk. His name is Louis, and he carried a bunch 
of Dittany, fond of its lilac blossoms. Halle 
had that superb triumph in scholarship — Fiske's 
"American Revolution," and told me he is work- 
ing this term for a prize in United States His- 
tory — $20 in gold. I think he will get it. Louis 
is from "across the pond," as he said, and told 
me that he and Halle have formed an Anglo- 
American alliance for the year. I told him that 
I trust it will spread until the whole Anglo-Saxon 
race become one, and then I left the lads with 
my blessing. School opens to-morrow, and I 
will tell you of it in my next letter. I went 
down to Harry's to help him with his Latin, and 
his mother would not let me leave until after 
dinner. We re-potted his ferns, and then I came 
back to my study. 



32 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



XX. 

September i8, 1899. 
How clear and strong the air was this morn- 
ing, WalHe, as I climbed up the "Way of the 
Winds !" The leaves were a pale gold and 
drifted down with music ; death is so beautiful 
among the trees. Here and there a sunbeam 
shot through the hush, but they have not the 
old power. The morning-glories, though, climb 
and twist and glow with all the loveliness of 
Summer ; they heed not that we are on the verge 
of frost. A chestnut fell at Brow-wait, telling 
that the year's work is nearly finished. Ah, me ! 
There are stealthy footsteps on all the silent 
avenues, and ghostly hands invisible bear the 
winding-sheet. As I sit here among the rocks 
of Chaos, looking out toward Century Swamp, 
the oaks and the maples and the lindens make 
a sea of fire but the tide of splendour will ebb, 
and the drear wastes of snow will spread the 
pall. I was glad to get to the Monastery, where 
all was life and enthusiasm. The Masters 
ready for their work, and the boys ready for 
Virgil, and Cicero, and Zenophon, and algebra. 
I doubt, though, whether the boys would put it 
that way and say they are ready. One surely 
was not, for as I listened to the recitation, he 
made the statement that "only one straight point 
can be drawn between two given lines," and 
never seemed to know that he had made a new 
d( parture in mathematics. The Chair smiled, and 
said to him: "That is real genius;" and we 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 33 

all enjoyed the laugh that followed. The lad re- 
deemed himself splendidly, though, when it came 
to Latin. I fear that Louis, of whom I told you, 
is not a genius with tools. He offered and 
the Abbot sent him out to put a hinge on a door. 
The first thing, he smashed his hand, but did 
not say anything. I am sure, though, that he 
must have thought. Then he broke a ripsaw and 
his hammer, and the Abbot coming out to see 
how he was getting on and finding that he had 
wasted enough nails to make a door — looked 
much, but said nothing except that he had bet- 
ter stick to his books hereafter. The lad was 
gone all the evening, but I noticed, after Even- 
song, that a bunch of exquisite purple orchids 
lay at the Abbot's place at supper, and Louis had 
a glad face again. He knows more about or- 
chids than carpenter-work. 



XXI. 

September 20, 1899. 
The Way of the Winds was strewn with leaves 
this morning, Wallie, and they made the whole 
mountain-side luminous with pale gold. There 
was crimson, too, enough, as if all the sunsets 
of all time were scattered there. I found the 
boys of the school busy with their books, but 
they had not the lean, inquiring look of the 
scholar in their eyes. The windows were all 
open, and the ripe leaves falling with voiceless 
music. One of them drifted silently onto the 



34 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

page that young Halle Seton was studying, but 
from the look in his eyes, I know he was miles 
and miles away from his work. After lessons, 
they filled the hills with their glad health. One 
of them took me into the dormitory to see a bag 
of hazelnuts that he had gathered at Monksrest, 
and another insisted that I must come into the 
garden to see the butternuts that he picked up in 
the glen. They have left their stain on the 
lad's hands, and I told him that I hope he will 
be as successful in leaving his mark on the world. 
One serious-looking little fellow, the youngest of 
the lot, I found searching the woods, with his eyes 
on the ground, looking for "the equinoctial 
line," which, he said, the old Scotch mother told 
him he would be likely to find at this time of the 
year. I told him I thought he had searched 
long enough and I took him off to Caltha Swamp 
to hear the brook-songs that were sung before 
man was made. He asked me, as we sat there 
among the lusty bonesets, why he could not 
find that "equinoctial line," of which Mrs. Bruce 
had told him. I answered him that it is one 
of those things that will be found, when mortals 
find the bag of gold at the ends of the rainbow, 
and the lad was satisfied. The cow-bells made 
music far away, the soft sounds that you and 
I love so well : and the locusts in the chestnuts 
forgot that it is Fall. The golden-rod bordered 
the avenues with yellow fringe of flowers where 
the drowsy bees found sweetness, and the great 
purple heads of the thistles mused on many a 
page of Scottish History. It was all so beauti- 
ful. I have not seen the old botanist, the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 35 

master of Ageweight, for a long time ; to-mor- 
row I shall go there. I think he can tell me the 
plant that was given you last week. 



XXII. 

September 22, 1899. 

The bine sky breaks through the mists, the 
rainVcloiids are hurrying away, the sunshine is 
turning the morning into gold, and a voice from 
Brow-wait calls, Wallie. I must go up to the 
hills of God. 

Well, I have been. There was soothing in 
the deep purple silence that filled the Way of the 
Winds, and a shower of blossoms fell from the 
rain-drops that quivered in shinings from the 
trees. I went to see the botanist, the master 
of Ageweight, and he stood in the health and sun- 
shine of his porch to welcome me. He had seen 
me coming. I wrapped your plant up, and took 
it to him for classification, and find it is an or- 
chid — the coelog}me — and that it will blossom 
this winter — white and gold. His porch has a 
heavy white fringe of Madeira blossoms, and the 
scent made all the air so soft and delicate. We 
sat in those restful, hospitable willow chairs, 
and presently Mrs. McDonald came out to an- 
nounce dinner. I had no thought that it was 
so late. But they both insisted that I must 
stay, and I told them how great pleasure it would 
give me. We had limas, and tomatoes with a 
most delightful dressing, and a broiled chicken, 



36 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

and peach cream and a cup of coffee. I stayed 
all the evening, and they would not let me come 
away until after toast and a cup of chocolate 
at sunset. At 4 there was a great noise of 
feet and voices — a dozen of the school-boys came 
to see if they could do anything for Mrs. Mc- 
Donald. Oh, yes, they could. And she brought 
out two big watermelons and a basket of peaches, 
and the lads showed themselves equal to the 
task. On toward 5 it chilled, and the Master 
had a fire on the hearth in his study. We sat 
before it with comfort — the flames leaping and 
flashing and glowing, and singing the songs of 
other years that lay hidden in the aged logs as 
they burned. As we sipped our chocolate, he read 
me a poem that he wrote some years ago on 
Nathan Hale, it being the anniversary of the 
patriot's martyrdom. I will send it you: 

A hundred million hearts to-day 
Tell forth their praise of thee, 

A hundred million tongues extol 
Thy death for liberty. 

What then is Liberty? The force, 

God-given, by which we rise 
And overcome this Self, through Christ 

Who draws men to the skies. 

Thy deed the Master's hand inspired, 

Thy deed the chisel thrilled. 
Thy deed the insensate stone gave speech, 

Thy Country's heart it filled. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 37 

What triumph over death and time 

And self — thy dying word ! 
''Only one life to give." Its power 

A deathless name conferred. 

A heaven of lives as thick as stars, 
Such love as thine had given. 

Its lightning eloquence, the bolt 
By which all hearts are riven. 



XXIII. 



September 22,, 1899. 
As I toiled up the avenue this morning, Wallie, 
a white birch imveiled its lovely face, and asked 
if I v/ould not like a canoe for a scull. I thanked 
the tree, and an owl that had overheard said it 
puzzled him to know what I could do with an- 
other skull. ''Why made out of a canoe," he 
mused, "a man would be nothing but a wooden- 
head." He sat among our old hemlocks, hold- 
ing a stalk of night-shade over his head for 
shelter, and he asked me if I would have an 
umbrella. I met Mrs. Bruce, the house-keeper 
of the Monastery; I think she had lost her tem- 
per, and I offered to hunt round in the wet grass 
and help her find it. She was not too much out 
of sorts to laugh, and her laughter was good to 
hear. The young lad of whom I told you, says 
the good mother was trying to find that lost 
"equinoctial line" for a clothes-line, and she 
threw a chestnut at his head. I stood behind 
her as she threw it, and she hit me instead of 



38 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the lad. The mushrooms on the pastures gave 
out their nutty smell : pearls trembled on the 
branches of the walnuts : and all the miles of 
vista were luminous with the splendours of the 
arch that spans the storm. It seemed as if all 
the rainbows of the wasted centuries burned 
there. I had a little lunch with Mrs. Bruce and 
the Abbot, after taking- the Class in History. It 
was so restful. The fire on the hearth, and the 
breaking mists, and the burning sumachs, and 
the conscience-stricken wind that moaned at the 
doors. After the boys had taken dinner, I went 
with Halle to Monksrest to see the tuberoses, 
and then I came down the hills, for a crow had 
told me it would clear. I took his word for 
it : he had learned the truth far up in the Blue 
beyond the reach of clouds and storms. The 
spring was like a silver cup sunken in the moss, 
and I sat with it and talked awhile. A burning 
stalk of Cardinal Flower held its torch for me 
there in the restful gloom, thinking that I wanted 
to read as at other times. It had enough crim- 
son to make a whole sunset glorious, and I feel 
its glow with stronger emphasis now that the 
chill of night is coming on. Philip Ageweight 
is coming up the walk, and I shall keep him for 
an oyster fry. 

XXIV. 

September 25, 1899. 
A strong tide of gold swept through the Way 
of the Winds this morning, Wallie, and the 
mountains were filled with the resonance of Na- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 39 

lure's glad voices, because of the passing storm. 
The rain-drops hung Hke silver lamps from the 
trees, and the breath of the morning shook them 
into the stronger splendours of the light that 
rolled in from the ocean depths on High. Mighty 
arches of gold and green and Indian red and pur- 
ple towered unto the heights ; and every tree 
was smothered and lost beneath the triumph of 
banners that the year's sunset has tinctured. Yes- 
terday after Mass, the day ran into avalanches 
of rain that lasted far into the night. It let up 
a little at 4, and I took Harry and went to see 
Philip. He had a young railroad man with him 
over Sunday; a young man who is ambitious to 
get on in the world, and whom Philip is help- 
ing in English grammar and history. I liked 
his quiet ways, and we all enjoyed supper to- 
gether. We had sweet corn, and it was worthy 
of the name. The three of us had Henry Clay 
cigars afterward, and Harry found solace talk- 
ing with Philip's sister. There was just a slight 
sting of ice in the air, I as I stood at Monksrest 
this morning, and the crows in the highest vaults 
of the purple looked through the vision of the 
months, and told with the voices of their un- 
daunted courage that the world is getting ready 
for another Spring. There is no Winter in the 
Crows' Calendar. A last blue Lobelia stood with 
its hands full of sapphires, dropping them wan- 
tonly — I thought — into the brook ; but then the 
song that the brook sang was worth it. All the 
boys of the school were out looking for mush- 
rooms, and not in vain had they looked. Mrs. 
Bruce stood at a line of snowy linen, and said, 



40 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. , 

as I greeted her, that it is the weekly festival of 
wash-day. The Abbot sat in his cloak on the 
porch, listening to the song of the winds in the 
old walnut trees. He took me into the library 
to enjoy the thrill of the fire that Halle had 
just started on the hearth; and then Mrs. Bruce 
came in, and spread the cloth and gave us a 
dainty dish of fried mushrooms that the lads 
had just brought in. The chestnuts fell all round 
me, pelting the trees as I came through the woods 
on my way home. 



XXV. 

September 26, 1899. 
I called for Harry and took him with me to 
Mass at 6, and we met Philip Ageweight on 
the mountain-top in the last star-light and the 
hush. Harry left immediately after the service 
to get to his office, and Philip hurried for his 
train. I had the time, so I stayed there among 
the hills. All the Monastery lawns were strewn 
with pearls, and the lush of the grass had no 
remembrance of the Summer heat. The leaves 
fluttered down at my feet with the story of the 
sunset glowing in every vein ; and the hemlocks 
swayed themselves in sleep and dreamed of 
Christmas snows. All round, the rain made mel- 
odies : and the dash of the foam-swept brooks, 
and the soothings of the wind among the pines 
of Monksrest made the heart glad and the world 
below forgotten. "I will lift up mine eyes unto 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 41 

the hills." Here the Angels first sang the song 
of That Child ; and, even now, you have but to 
put your ear to the world's heart and listen, to 
hear the throbbings of the old melodies and the 
In Excelsis Glorias of Bethlehem. The pass- 
ing month goes on in majesty through wine-col- 
oured woods, and every tree is inspired with 
Hosannas in the Highest. A last Eupatorium 
empurpled the brook with its halo of royalty, as 
I sat there; and a pair of crows on a bough of 
lichens whispered of all the beauty. They have 
an aesthetic nature, to be sure ; though some are 
said to know stories to the contrary. The Ab- 
bot after the reading — and I read that delightful 
book on Venice — left me, having told me to sit 
and enjoy the glowing logs and forget the world 
outside. I took up a magazine, and read a beau- 
tiful story — ''Anne," by Mrs. Robert Louis Ste- 
venson, and it makes you feel that there is no 
nore shock nor wrench in death, than there is 
in the falling of the leaves. Dear Mrs. Bruce 
-ame in and invited me to a dainty lunch, and 
the coffee was like what you and I used to have 
when we lived among the orange groves. She 
talked with me about Melrose Abbey, which she 
knows as you and I know Caltha Swamp, and 
many a kindly word she said of Mary Stuart, the 
injured Queen. There was a splendid strength in 
her face, as she talked of the days which Scott 
has glorified in "The Abbot." As I left, she 
said : ''Father, do ye ken Mary's bit answer on 
marricht to Lochleven?" It was fine. 



42 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



XXVI. 

September 27, 1899. 
A large flag floated from the Monastery porch 
this morning, Wallie, its field of stars filled with 
inspiration from the light above. The Abbot 
gave the boys a holiday, for they could not work 
with battleships and guns and triumphal arches 
demanding their every thought. He called the 
whole school together in the library and made 
a few remarks — and he did not talk for three- 
quarters of an hour — but pointing to the Flag*, 
he told them to remember that they are citizens 
of Heaven : and to live so that the stripes of dis- 
cipline shall become transfigured into whiteness 
of character and the stars of sovereign deeds 
for the world's good. Then with great clamour 
of voices and hands and feet, they rushed out 
to enjoy the day as they pleased. A party of 
them went with me to the cave of which the 
old Indian Mother told them last week. She 
led the way, and stopped before a rock. ''Don't 
step on that bluet," she said to an eager lad: 
and her love for a flower won my heart. She 
lifted a scarlet vine and its purple berries from 
a stone that had kept its lichen sleep for half a 
century : and here we passed from the light into 
the blackness of ages. We went round with 
torches, Halle and Louie carrying them, the old 
mother calling them — -"The Lucifers." She 
pointed out the graves of warriors who have been 
dust a thousand generations. "Here sleep my 
People," she cried, "and here shall I be buried.'* 



Alountaln Walks of a Recluse. 43 

And the light on her old withered face, the echo- 
ings of her uplifted voice on the night — awed 
us, as in the living presence of death. There 
were arrows and tomahawks and other instru- 
ments of warfare there. "But they are all gone — 
the warriors," she cried, ''gone to worship at 
His feet !" Then she led us out ; and I went with 
them back to the Monastery where we went into 
the library, and I read to them articles on Ad- 
miral Dewey and the great victory of Manila 
Bay, from the October Magazines. Herbert 
Gardener called for me about 11, just as we had 
finished our reading, and I went with him out 
into the genial summer-warmth and the hush, 
glad to rest the tension of the nerves. I went 
home and dined with him and his mother, and we 
had the first pumpkin pie from the harvest gold 
of their corn-fields. He is going to see The Olym- 
pia on the 29th. 



xxvn. 



September 28, 1899. 
The frost jewels shimmered and trembled with 
soft lightnings this morning, Wallie. Nature 
is a grand optimist : thinking only of the splen- 
dour and the glory, with no lamentation over 
the long drear months to be. The great chasm 
of the Winter is bridged with visions of hepati- 
cas and bluets and of colum.bines veiling the 
earthquake-torn rocks with glory. A chestnut 
fell at my feet while I sat at Monksrest, and a 
squirrel that had not breakfasted took it for his 



44 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

own, broke the russet shell, and sat before me, 
making" a dainty feast. The old peach-trees, 
wearied with the year's work, were preparing for 
their rest, but the drift of aged leaves told that 
every naked branch would soon be soft with 
blossoms. Nature is so hopeful : no looking on 
the dark side until it be past, and then with 
thankfulness. The brook was very busy, hurry- 
ing on through the smoky shadows with its 
long stretches of music, the whole way sweet 
with its breath of melodies. I sat and dreamed 
a while at the spring under the walnuts, and 
suddenly, a whisper spoke to me : ''Dust to 
dust!" It was the old Indian Mother. And, oh, 
so radiant with beauty that withered face ! Youth 
retained, like the blossom in the Apple's heart. 
She said : 'Tt is another Autumn-tide, and I 
am so glad that my own pilgrimage is so nearly 
finished." Just here Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. 
Bruce passed, going down into Whippoorwill 
glen for frost grapes. I joined them and helped 
with the fragrant work, and they told me that 
I shall have a glass of jelly. They went their 
way, and I went back to Monksrest with Philip 
Ageweight who came along, as I sat listening 
to the falling butternuts. The old gardener was in 
his lodge, enjoying a hearth-fire. He invited us 
within, and gave us some peaches, and then we 
went into his garden to see the long avenues of 
velvety dahlias, a rich blending of maroon and 
cardinal, such lavish masses of blossoms, and the 
sunshine so warm on the dark-green foliage. Be- 
yond the garden, the maples mirrored the flames 
of the year's funeral pile ; and along the fences 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 45 

to the south, was an acre and more of wild sun- 
flowers. Ten feet tall, as thick as stars, swaying 
and flashing and showing infinite variations of 
reddish gold in the dreamy light. A vast cloud- 
stretch of imprisoned sunbeams : and as I gazed 
upon them, and could not get my eyes away, 
life and personality seemed given to them, and 
I said with the old Patriarch — ''This is God's 
Host !" 



XXVIII. 



S. Luke's Day, October 18, 1899. 
I thought to be with you for a trip to the 
hills, Wallie, but have not had the strength. A 
fever that came upon me two weeks ago has not 
left me as yet, though I have hinted, out loud, 
several times, that its welcome is gone. I told 
it this morning with emphasis, using Lady Mac- 
beth's words — to stand not upon the order of its 
going, but to go at once. Mrs. McDonald came 
to see me yesterday, and brought me a basket 
of chrysanthema scented like frankincense and 
luminous w^th frost-jewels. I breathed the life 
and the health of the hills from their loveliness, 
and am more content to wait here, though her 
visit made me dreadfully home-sick. After she 
had left me, and after the boys whom I am 
tutoring for the month had gone, I went in 
spirit to Monksrest for an hour in the dreamy 
sunshine and stillness. A cluster of purple ge- 
rardia opened its petals for an Indian Summer 
blessing, and a rivulet of sweetness — a song of 



46 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the walnut-trees — plained on the air, and sank 
into the year's withered heart with an anodyne 
of peace. Then my mind went back to the Fes- 
tival of the Warrior Angel, Sept. 29th, on which 
I came away. The fire that burned in the Orient 
told that the purple hush of the stars was well 
nigh accomplished, and the mists that rolled up 
the mountains were like fleeing ghosts. It was 
hard to leave it all, and "the old sorrow wakes 
and cries." I have worked hard with the boys, 
though ; and they, too, have worked hard, and 
that will be a satisfaction when the day comes 
for me to return. I walked with them to Mass 
this morning to a little church just out of the 
city, and the Priest received me kindly and in- 
vited me to say Mass on the Festival of Sts. 
Simon and Jude, the last day, but one, of my 
stay here. We took a trolley back, and the boys 
stopped at a green-house and gave me a box 
of carnations. I have invited the dear fellows 
to come and spend Christmas with me among 
the hills, and they have told me with enthusiasm 
that they will come. I sit in my study here ; 
the fort has just fired the sunset-gun ; and 
the electric lights have just burst into flower. 
I think of you all among -the steeps of God, and 
long for a smell of the russet leaves. 



XXIX. 

All Hallows' Eve, October 31, 1899. 
I am at home now, Wallie. My work is done ; 
the boys are gone to school ; the month in the city 




Orifiiiial I) 11 John DeC(nii)). 

PHILIP AGEWEIGHT 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 47 

is past. 'Harry Phillips came and spent the last 
two days with me, and brought me a box of 
those divine Cattleya orchids. My old garden 
is ablaze with chrysanthema, and the sunshine 
this morning melted the manna of the frost into 
a radiance too strong for mine unaccustomed 
eyes. ' I sat and dreamed and dozed in the em- 
bers of the year's glory, and at noon Philip Age- 
weight came and took me with him to the warm 
woods where we sat for an hour among the 
dropping nuts, and the scolding squirrels, and 
the crisp russet leaves, and the clouds that 
dreamed in the Indian Summer haze. We walked 
back to the old house, and at 3, he called and 
took me in his carriage to dine with him. For des- 
sert he cut his All Hallows' cake, and we talked 
of the dear festival until the shadows came in 
sombre vesture and filled the library where the 
sunshine so short a time before had spread the 
warmth but not the furious burnings of the year's 
strength. He has written an All Saints' poem 
and I send you a copy : 

I bent yestreen to learn what words 
Old Indian Brook might sing; 

Its solemn answerings to my soul 
Strange revelations bring. 

It was the gloaming hour before 

All Hallows' Festival ; 
The stream flow^ed on in carol tides 

Of passion musical. 



48 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

The sunset fire spread o'er its face, 
And from the odourous breeze 

Witch-hazel blossoms fell and clouds 
Of reddening amber leaves. 

And then I heard a throb of song, 
From Heaven it seemed out-poured ; 

Ten thousand times ten thousand sang. 
Their sacred hearts adored. 

And then I saw them gathering round 

In mist of splendours white ; 
Their hosts reached out unto the stars 

That fill the depths of Light. 

Their soft hosanna-chords the brook 

Told tO' my listening ear ; 
And then mine eyes saw, face to face, 

Departed souls draw near. 

One came from out the throng and laid 

His hand upon my face. 
I knew him ! Oh, his glorious eyes ! 

The death-pangs leave no trace. 

He took his pencil as we talked, and wrote 
it all in 15 minutes: and there was a light on 
his face as if he had seen beyond the veil into this 
day's reality. I have just been to the door, and 
there were lights on the mountains — the Mon- 
astery boys are coming: Philip is to give them 
an All Hallows' merry-making. 

The scent of the chrysanthema was on the 
soft twilight as I stood in the porch, and, oh, what 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 49 

a blaze of glory they were at 3 ! All along the 
paths, a very surf of gold from the vast ocean 
of the sunshine. And not only bordering the 
paths, but in great squares also, and as thick as 
clouds of butterflies. They gladden and freshen 
and exhilarate one as he gazes on them. You 
think at times : ''Surely it is a tangle of hum- 
ming-birds !" What opulence and strength of 
blossoming in the dying Summer ! Nature's pro- 
test against IMortality. The year is passing, not 
unto decay and the shreds of nothingness : but 
unto rest and the renewal of its energies, to wake 
again in the Spring — revivified. How they tin- 
gle the nerves! There is a laughter, a joyance 
among them — they have never heard of the 
world's sorrows. The breeze stirs them into a 
quivering of many wings, like bees over seas 
of honey. And there is nothing coarse nor gross 
in these yellow blossoms. In colour they are 
like the witch-hazel fringe on the lorn branches 
overhead. I look at them again, and find the 
very likeness of the yellow that makes the even- 
ing primroses so refreshing when the oven-blasts 
of a July day yield to the whippoorwill songs 
and the soothings of the twilight. And then 
again, association takes me back to the earli- 
est Spring: the frightened snowdrifts hide in 
the fence-corners, the russet leaves in all the 
woods glow like pomegranates, the new foliage 
is in the first pink loveliness of its babyhood, 
the ground is warm, and in all the gardens the 
light-drenched daffodils wear the chrysanthema 
yellow of the latest Fall. But the boys are in 
the porch and putting out their lanterns : Har- 



50 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

ry has just come : the feast Is ready. I must 
stop my musings, and help PhiHp entertain the 
lads. 



XXX. 

November 5, 1899. 
I sit looking out on the hills ; to-morrow I 
am going to climb them — my first visit since 
returning from the city. The Monastery boys 
who were at Philip's All Saints' Eve wanted 
to know what I had seen : and I told them how 
I had seen the Olympia pass up the Bay, and 
how the city was one vast illumination in hon- 
our of the great Admiral, and how cannon and 
rockets and whistles and acres of flags and mil- 
lions of souls voiced the great demonstration. A 
party of them was down to see the race be- 
tween Columbia and Shamrock, and thought they 
might see me, but I was not there. The hush 
is deep all round me as I write — it is night. A 
hearth-fire drowses in the room : the old clock 
tells the solmnity of the ebb of the life-tide : 
the owls strike the tremulous silences, and there 
are whisperings on the night of fallen leaves 
stirred by the wind. As I watch the sleepy 
embers, I recall how I sat in my study some 3 
weeks ago, there in the roar, the dash, the hur- 
ry of that mighty Babel — and, of a sudden, there 
came a knock at the door. I thought it was the 
post-man with letters, but when I opened, there 
stood the Abbot and Mrs. Bruce and H'alle! I 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 51 

was more than glad. There seemed all the mys- 
tery, the silence, the purple splendour of the 
stars on their garments. "I never thought to 
see ye. Padre, in sic a place," said Mrs. Bruce ; 
and I told her I had been ''sic," or I would 
have run home for a dav, and her smile was beau- 
tiful. She had a branch of the witch-hazel 
fringe that she cut at Llonksrest : and the Ab- 
bot told me how all the woods were wrapt in 
rainbow cloth, and all the trees encrimsoned with 
the year's sunset. But I am here among them 
now, and the longing is satisfied ; the home-sick- 
ness gives place to peace. A sigh goes up from 
the bosom of the night-hush, as I stand in the 
open door : the year is going down to the swell- 
ings of the Jordan. Another century is going 
back to Eternity to be revivified. 



XXXI. 

November 8, 1899. 
I was awakened from my sleep under the wal- 
nuts by the tremulous notes of an owl that flew 
from tree to tree in the thickening shadows. 
How soft the notes were on the hush, so full 
of melody ! What were the world's rage and tur- 
moil and distractions to this denizen of the for- 
ests ! It came with such soothing on the wear- 
ied mind, and drifted deep unto the hidden 
depths of life with health. I called to mind, as 
I sat there, an All Saints' Festival years ago, when 



52 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

you and I were on the mountains after the rag- 
ings of a storm. The sky a pale turquoise light, 
and at great height were mist of clouds soft as 
fleece and flushed with gold. The ferns had 
a softer brilliancy; the trunks of the old trees 
were wrapped in steam; pearls of rain-drops lay 
on the russet leaves that strewed the avenues ; 
a yellow fringe of hamamells drifted down from 
the trees that bloom in the year's death. We 
looked into that owl's home in the old linden, 
the threshold veiled in twilight; and overhead a 
squirrel chased a falling chestnut and won. I 
saw the old linden to-day, and even after these 
fifteen years of death it is still beautiful. There 
was a great wealth of sunshine, and the storm- 
tired hills lay at peace. The calm had no touch 
of unrest on its face, and wide leagues of 
majesty were instinct with a power of life that 
told there is no death. The year's last fragrances 
were on the air — ^an hundred pounds' weight 
of myrrh for burial : but the day, the trees, the 
withered foliage, the lichen-covered rocks, the 
heights of the mountains hammered by the ever- 
lasting storms, and the splendours of light that 
the suffocations of night cannot overwhe-lm — 
all these told of that "far more exceeding and 
Eternal weight of Glory." A crash of triumph 
rolled from on High, and its burden was — "I 
am the Resurrection and the Life," while all 
was "one great vision of the Face of Christ." 

I sat until I saw lanterns on the hills. Then 
the voices and the footsteps of men going home 
from their work. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 53 



XXXII. 

November 9, 1899. 
The sunshine melted the frost- jewels into 
softest drops of Summer rain, as I climbed up 
the heights this morning, Wallie, and every splen- 
dour of rainbow light blazed round. I looked 
into the owl's nest and he sat there undisturbed, 
the dreamy eloquence of sleep in his beautiful 
eyes. He knew it was a friend and that he 
had nothing to fear. The Abbot sat wrapped 
in his cloak in Cleft Rock, a wealth of glowing 
russet all around, a moonseed trailing its black- 
purple fruit, the leaves rustling in the soft breeze, 
a last anemone opening its frail petals at his 
feet. He gave me his hand, hardly lifting his 
eyes. Do you wonder? He was reading — 
"Glimpses of Wild Life About My Cabin." He 
had come out for a nerve tonic of silence be- 
tween his classes. We walked together to 
Alonksrest, and sat there an hour with the ge- 
nial gardener, who treated us to a bunch of his 
rare hot-house grapes. A lump of soft coal in 
the grate kept summer in his little office — his 
"Vigil box," as he calls it, and from the "Vigil 
box" we went and spent a moment among his 
Marechal roses and carnations. The Abbot went 
back to his work, and I sauntered alone among 
the rocky glens, enjoying Saint Martin's Sum- 
mer. The far-off river was drenched with blue, 
the rocks were fringed wnth ferns that had the 
year's soft youth on their fronds, and here and 
there a bee all dust of gold sang her honeyed 



54 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

song. I heard the ring of an axe, as I neared 
Cathedral rock, and found Harry cutting up a 
fallen hickory for his hearth. He sat and rested 
with me, and as he reached for his coat, ''King 
John" fell from his pocket. His recreation is 
not only physical but mental. I told him he 
had cut long enough, and took him with me to 
the Master's, and from there we stopped at 
his house and told his mother that he would 
spend the night with me. The Master was in 
his dining-room, dealing out mince-pie to a dozen 
of the Monastery boys, and Mrs. McDonald at 
hand with a reserved pie as big as a barrel head. 
Presently the boys said the pie was "out of sight," 
and that was every word true." 



XXXHL- 



November 13, 1899. 
I was belated in my return from the hills 
yesterday, Wallie : the crimson had turned into^ 
purple, the purple into ashes. It was night. 
The stars burned above the blackened world: 
the mystery of the vast silences was full of com- 
fort and solace. I was not alone. As I passed 
just at dusk, a lady called to me from her porch, 
and handed me a packet of poppy seed. She 
promised them last June, when all her garden 
was aflame Vv^ith their fire-coloured blossoms that 
held their dazzlings for nearly a month. I went 
with her into her drawing-room, and she played 
Berlioz' "Sanctus." I feel its passionate fervor 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 55 

even now. After leaving her, I sat a while on 
the old fence in Caltha Swamp, and the brook 
drowsed along sorrowing for the lost flowers. 
From the swamp I went to the Botanist's, in- 
vited to drink a cup of tea with him : but, to my 
delight, I found on reaching his dear retreat that 
the tea was to be coffee. Mrs. McDonald said : 
"I ken weel that ye dinna like tea. Father." What 
a picture of contentment, as I stood looking into 
his library windows ! He sat before the blaz- 
ing logs that the lightning hewed ; and from a 
crane in the fire-place a kettle hung filling the 
room with song, while the white steam mingled 
with the blaze. Ferns and vines shaded the win- 
dows, and blossoms of chrysanthema were as 
white as ghosts. Violets, too, breathed frag- 
rance on the calm, an owl hooted, and a whirl 
of startled leaves clouded the porch as I en- 
tered. Mrs. McDonald held a lamp for me, and 
said : "There is a glad welcome for ye." Pres- 
ently she announced supper ; and the snowy cloth, 
the silver, the china, the books, the drapery all 
made a sweet picture of home. And the flavour 
of the coffee was a delicious restfulness. There 
was a superb 'Tvanhoe" in two volumes, and 
after supper, Mrs. McDonald read Ulrica's death- 
song. The rich passion of her voice, and her 
wild eyes, and the flame that kindled her face 
made her seem verily the maddened woman 
whom she represented. We felt awed by her 
eloquent power. After the reading, Mrs. Bruce 
came with a lantern from the Monastery, to 
bring the Master some bananas, which the Ab- 
bot has just received from Florida. 



56 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



XXXIV. 

November 14, 1899. 
I found the Abbot just holding his sides from 
laughter, Wallie, my last visit there. He was 
in a great glee. Mrs. Bruce had just brought 
home a rabbit in her apron. She was on her 
way from Ageweight when she stumbled on a 
trap. She smashed the trap, released ''the puir 
beastie," took a stout hickory stick and reasoned 
with the man that set the trap. The Abbot took 
me into the library, and made mine eyes hun- 
gry with the sight of two volumes on the Eng- 
lish Cathedrals, in heavy purple covers. Mrs. 
Bruce brought in a dish of toast and a pitcher 
of cider that had just an appreciative sting. When 
I left I found that the boys had bon-fires of 
leaves over the mountains, and were roasting 
potatoes. Halle and Louie came up, and said 
they could show me the courtesy that General 
Marion showed a British officer — give me a smok- 
ing sweet potato from the ashes. The flames 
leaped and danced, the pale turquoise smoke 
scented the air, and the smell was like coming 
Spring. Ah, me, not Spring: the world lies in 
its shroud. On the harsh chill was the sweet 
plaint of a bluebird ; there is too much of heaven 
about the dear bird for him to despond. The 
wind whirled the last leaves : poor Summer 
ghosts ! and the west was a great hearth-fire 
of red from the setting sun. I hurried on to 
Ageweight to forget the solemn voices all around 
me of ''dust to dust." S. Simeon sat with the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 57 

Old Book of God on his knees, and his finger 
was on the words — "The desert shall rejoice and 
blossom as the rose." His welcome was so 
'cheery, and I was glad that my entrance did not 
disturb the tame quail that perched on his shoul- 
der. ''You are just in time, my son :" and I 
went with him to close the violet frames. Then 
I sat with him in the twilight, until the ghastly 
wastes of the lost day were swept over with the 
tide of stars. Stephen and Harry called just 
at dusk with some cress for Mrs. McDonald ; 
and the Master, hearing their voices in the 
kitchen, sent for them to come to the library. 
Mrs. McDonald then spread supper, and the boys 
were obliged to stay. We had a broiled steak, 
griddle cakes, a salad of white lettuce and cu- 
cumber, coffee and toast. I read them ''Tam o' 
Shanter,'* and I heard the good mother laugh 
after I was in bed. She is genuine Scotch. 



XXXV. 



November 15, 1899. 
A knock at my door this morning at 7, Wal- 
lie, waked me. Mrs. McDonald warned that 
there were but thirty minutes to breakfast-time. 
There was a fine fire on my hearth, the flames 
leaping three feet high, the wood snapping and 
crackling, and the room all summery with its 
glow. Outside, the hemlocks looked warm, and 
the sparrows chattered in their thick • branches. 
How many years these old trees have battled 



58 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

with the storms and throbbed with music from 
the Christmas skies ! 

We had buckwheat cakes for breakfast, and 
in a dainty cut-glass dish the good mother had 
furnished just a "wee scrappit" of Dundee 
marmalade. She is, moreover, one in ten thou- 
sand in making a cup of coffee. The Master 
and I started out at 9 in the clear, crisp air, the 
trunks of the trees ruddy with sunshine, and 
every twig sparkling with frost jewels. He was 
going to see a sick friend and take him some del- 
icacies. We passed through Caltha Swamp, and 
I thought how many nights the orchids must lift 
their eyes to the cold far-off Eternity before 
the Spring. "Here," pointing to a rock, "I sat 
on Christmas morning, 1799," said the old 
scholar, "and read from S. Luke, the Birth of 
That Child ; and the brook yonder sang its same 
soft melodies of sweetness." We went onward, 
and I could not but mark the full splendid vigour 
of his life. We found his friend, a young rail- 
road man, sitting in the sunshine of his porch, 
and getting well fast. He had the morning pa- 
per, "The Sun," and that story of exquisite 
beauty, "Lorna Doone," nearly read through. 
He said it had made him forget his illness. Her- 
bert lent it to him, and for all time he has done 
the young man good. The carriage came pres- 
ently: Mrs. McDonald thought the Master ought 
not to walk both ways. He insisted that I must 
come back with him, and I was more than glad 
to tell him that I would go and take the Mon- 
astery boys in History and then return. I did, 
and he met me on Bluet Ridge. Mrs. Bruce 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 59 

was with him, and I asked her if she had dis- 
covered any more traps. The rabbits have in 
her a staunch friend. 



XXXVI. 



November 16, 1899. 
I slept at Ageweight again last night, Wal- 
He, and you can understand how astonished I 
was to wake and find the hemlocks and the 
ground white with snow. It rested lightly on 
the old branches like fleece, and the slightest puff 
of wind drifted it to the earth, where now it 
is stamped with the rabbits' tread. How great 
the majesty, how deep the mystery, how real the 
inspiration of our solemn life here in the woods ! 
No sound of the world's mad life makes a dis- 
cord ; no shrieking whistles, no rush of steam, 
no thundering crash of the cars ; nor saws, nor 
belts, nor wheels, nor hammers of the mills and 
the factories ; no wild applause of civic life ; no 
rage of shot and shell and battle-field. Nothing 
breaks the Peace which passeth understanding. 
]\Ionth after month, year after year, the same 
unbroken calm ; the bluets and the columbines 
breathe out their souls in worship unknown and 
unheeded of the world : the Calthas turn the 
swamps to gold, and only the clouds know the 
mystery of their beauty ; the old hemlocks mul- 
tiply the lichens of centuries and the world's 
great hosts of souls know it not — the Many are 
called, the Few are chosen. "My son," said the 
Master of Ageweight, ''go back to the valley 



6o Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

long enough to get your Bible and your gold 
pen, and come back to leave me no more for- 
ever." And I have agreed : he has been a father 
to me, and more. Harold Anderson is in the 
study, and has just told an amusing experience 
that caused a man to change both his paper and 
his politics. One day last Summer the lad 
stopped at a place where an old farmer was por- 
ing over his morning paper, ''The World." He 
knew him well, so he said: "Why, do you read 
that !" The man with some sharpness answered 
yes. And Harold again : "Did you never read 
how The Bible says, 'Love not The World, 
neither the things that are in The World'?" 

"Well, there, I never thought of that !" So 
to-day he reads "The Tribune" and has changed 
his politics. The Master tells the lad he has a 
persuasive tongue. Mrs. McDonald has filled 
my room with violets. Harold has gone, so I 
am going in to be with them a while, and then 
I am to read Evensong to S. Simeon. Herbert 
and his mother are coming to sup with us. 



XXXVH. 



November 17, 1899. 
The snow is all gone, Wallie, as I sit looking 
from the library windows, and there is a sweet 
freshness about the grass that has not been seen 
for weeks. The green is so beautiful, as I look 
toward Caltha Swamp. Herbert and his mother 
took supper with us last night, as I said. They 
were driving yesterday, and calling at a green- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 6i 

house, Mrs. Gardener found a tropical plant 
full of blossoms, the richest purple, and she 
brought it to the Master. It stands in the south 
windows, the sunshine pouring through the petals 
of its soft loveliness. The Master has had the 
plant, Lasiandra, but never one so fine as this. 
Mrs. IMcDouald opened the violet frames a few 
minutes ago, and their fragrance is already on 
the air. I looked into that hole in the hemlock 
back of the violets, and a pair of kindly eyes 
met me undisturbed : they felt it was a friend. 
Halle is in the study for a moment, and has 
brought the Master a box of Cypripedium or- 
chids — a spotted green and bronze. They will 
last a week. The lad will dine with us to-night : 
the Abbot, Father Max and Mrs. Bruce, also 
are coming, and as I write, Mrs. McDonald is 
getting a turkey ready for the oven. The Mas- 
ter wishes me to invite you, and says he will 
sit and look toward Bluet Ridge at 5 : 30, for 
the gleam of your lantern. It is a pleasant fea- 
ture of our life here in the woods, to sit and 
watch the darkness gather, and then the lights 
of men on their way home after the day's work. 
The blackness is so solid, the wind moans, the 
chill pierces to the heart — and then the lights 
break on the scene with a gladness that takes 
all the fear out of our lives. The logs blaze 
with great brilliancy and enthusiasm, and the 
library windows are open toward the warm 
south. A little stream trails a soft silver cord 
down the rocks, and there on a sunny ledge, Halle 
who has left the cabin sits reading ''The Sec- 
ond Jungle Book." Kipling has taught so much 



62 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

tenderness for animals. The lad had a mag- 
azine with him lately at the cabin, and he sat 
in the ingle just lost in its intensity. I asked 
him what he was reading, and he held me the 
title, "The Trail of the Sand-hill Stag," with 
all its wild leagues of glorious health. 



XXXVIII. 



November i8, 1899. 
I have been in the city, Wallie, to get "Ben 
Hur" for the Master. In two volumes, orange 
cloth, the "Garfield Edition," it is called, with 
no end of illustrations. They are delightful 
books to handle. I wish you could have heard 
the noisy welcome that the ducks gave me on 
my return. They followed me way up on the 
front porch, and I had to throw them a head 
of lettuce. I brought "The Lady of the Lake" 
and "Tales of a Grandfather" for Mrs. McDon- 
ald, and when the dinner was an hour late, she 
said, as she served it : "I burnt the fule up 
and had to roast anither." She got so interested 
in the daughter of the exiled Douglas, that she 
forgot she had a dinner in the oven. The Mas- 
ter said : "Scott has been doing that kind of 
mischief ever since he lay down his immortal 
pen." I found her in the sunset later, the Bi- 
ble open in her hands, but Scott in her lap. She 
is too practical, though, to lose another dinner. 
We dine at two this week, and after it was over 
to-day, Jamie drove the Master and myself down 
to call on Dr. and Mrs. Ageweight and hear a 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 6 



o 



word of Philip. The doctor Is very glad that 
Philip is studying for his father's profession. We 
sat in their quiet drawing-room before a solid 
hearth-fire of hickory, and after a Baldwin ap- 
ple, left in time for Evensong at the Monastery. 
We brought the Abbot and Father Max, Mrs. 
Bruce and Halle home to drink a cup of coffee 
with us. The Master and the Abbot drove and 
the rest of us walked. We had a broiled fish, 
and the supper room was so warm and bright, 
while all without was solid blackness. The vines 
sobbed mournfully against the windows ; an owl 
hooted in the hemlocks, and the echoes from the 
rocks answered him. The Winter may come to 
the threshold, but cannot pass the doors of Age- 
weight. A mile away at 9 the light of the Monas- 
tery carriage shone, coming stealthily, noiselessly 
on. Because of its brilliant electric light the 
Abbot calls it ''Wandering Star," and I watched 
it out of sight on their way home. It turned all 
that drear avenue into day. They took with them 
Stephen, who had called to see the new books. 
Just hear that owl ! 



XXXIX. 



November 21, 1899. 
I was in the valley on Sunday, Wallie, after 
Mass, and two of the Master's crows came down 
to find me. I w^ondered, as I sat with the dear 
ones, if you would hear the birds. I went to see 
Harry, and took him with me to Philip's for 
supper. His father and mother were so glad to 



64 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

have him home for the day. We had waffles and 
maple syrup that was made in the woods last 
March — the syrup I mean, not the waffles. While 
we sat at table a box was brought to Mrs. Age- 
weight. She opened it, and found it packed full 
of mignonette. Some of it was given to me, and 
I am drenched with its searching fragrances even 
now — Tuesday morning. We left at 9, and I 
took Harry home, to stay all night. We sat in 
the library for an hour and the lad read "Froude's 
Caesar," one of the best looks ever written. The 
wind made soft music among the leaves of that 
fine apple tree on the south; and the moon 
drifted silently up above the hemlocks, touching 
all the shadows with silver. The light broke 
through the evergreens and made a window that 
showed the water of Caltlia Swamp soft with the 
calm blue. In the dim light of the garden I saw 
a beautiful owl cast the light of its eyes on the 
dial face to see what hour it was, and, telling my 
fancy to Harry, he quoted from Tennyson : 
"Late. Late. So late! What hour I wonder now?" 
Mrs. McDonald gave him a cup of coffee and 
griddle cakes, and he left in time to get to his 
office yesterday morning at 7. After he left, she 
and I went out for a walk to the woods. She 
wanted to make a nut cake, and thought we 
might find some few nuts still under some fa- 
mous shag-barks that she knew. We found not 
a few : the ground was white with them, no 
one had been to the trees at all. We got to- 
gether a bushel and Jamie took the cart and went 
for them. She made the nut cake and gave the 
Monastery boys a feast last night — just to re- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 65 

mind "the piiir bodies" that Thanksgiving is 
near. We walked this morning to Monksrest, 
and the gardener has a bed of cucumbers yel- 
low with blossoms. Stephen has taken the Mas- 
ter out for a drive. 



XL'. 

November 22, 1899. 
The sunshine broke into crimson, the hour the 
new day was wrapped in swaddling clothes, and 
filled my bed-chamber with the glow that has 
so much cheer and comfort In it — the glow that 
comes only in the time of frosts. I like to 
stand the first thing in the morning and look 
at the ashen trunks so thick on the mountains 
and flushed with the warm light. And through 
the wide stretch ,of woods the heat quivered 
silently, this morning, and every lichened bough 
glowed with ruddy health. Not a sound In all 
the forests, save that a bluebird on a swaying 
branch told that Spring will come back again. 
The fire on the hearth was eloquent and made 
so much music, that I did not hear footsteps in 
my room, until a hand lay a most exquisite 
branch of stephanotis on my face. It was the 
Master. He has been up since 5, and was just 
returning from Pulpit Rock, where he had been 
to wave his lantern to Philip, as he started out 
for his train. The Stephanotis he cut from 
the green-house, and It will fill the study with 
the life and fragrance of its white soul all day. 
Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Bruce have gone to 



66 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the city. Mrs. McDonald wore her mother's 
wedding-bonnet, and asked me if I thought it 
would do. I told her that Society would think 
it a new fashion ''brent new frae France," and 
every woman of Gotham would immediately 
adopt ''the McDonald." Stephen has the Mas- 
ter out for a drive. The lad wants to show him 
how well a new colt behaves himself. They will 
stop and bring Herbert back with them, and 
the four of us will take lunch together. Mully 
got into the garden a little while ago, and was 
deeply offended that she was driven out before 
she had time to see the violets. Jamie showed 
her the pitchfork, and with queenly toss of head 
and hoofs and tail, she returned with some spirit 
to her own quarters and there munches the cud 
of discontent, though Jamie threw her an arm- 
ful of "Kale blades." It is now 5 p. m. The 
boys left at 2. The twilight is deepening. I 
see lanterns a mile off : the carriage is coming. • 



XLI. 

November 23, 1899. 
I went up the Way of the Winds this morn- 
ing, Wallie, and halted a moment at Brow-wait. 
The veil of leaves is gone, and the withered year 
shows the mystery and the splendour beyond. 
A branch of Hamamelis swayed heavily beneath 
a robin's weight, and the bird looked so beau- 
tiful against the soft sky of pearl and gold. He 
came from the Monastery gardens, and has the 
courage to spend the Winter there. I found the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 67 

Abbot on the porch, giving some directions to 
a gardener. After he had finished, he invited 
me into the Hbrary, and as we talked he told 
me a bit of the gardener's history. Some years 
ago Mrs. Bruce waked the Priest at night and 
told him there were thieves in the house. He 
slipped on his cassock, and went down quietly 
to the library. There a man covered his breast 
with a pistol ; but he, with no thought of self, 
said to the man : ''Sit down. I, too, am armed." 
And with that he took a Bible from his breast. 
The trembling thief dropped into a chair. The 
Abbot seated himself, reasoned with the man 
of righteousness and judgment to come, prayed 
with him, baptized him in a silver bowl that 
he would have taken away, and then gave him 
a bed for the night. He never left the good 
Priest, and from that hour to this, has been a 
man whom The Christ approves. We went out 
on the porch again, and the tropical plant of 
which I told you rained its purple blossoms 
down, covering the Abbot with their royalty as 
he talked with me. And he said with that light- 
some smile: "You see it is the fall of the year, 
my son." A wild cherry-tree beyond the wal- 
nuts is still full of fruit, and the robins are hav- 
ing a feast. They are not an ascetic bird by any 
means. Mrs. Monroe and Stephen came along, 
as I resumed my walk, and told me if I would 
drive home with them, they would give me some 
mignonette for my study. I would walk males 
to enjoy that marvellous fragrance. I spent an 
hour with them, had a piece of toast and a glass 
of cream, and Stephen read ''The Bigelow Pa- 



68 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

pers" aloud to our enjoyment and profit. Mrs. 
McDonald was on Bluet Ridge, as I returned: 
and with both hands outstretched, she cried : 
"Ah, ye are a welcome sicht !" We walked 
home together, and now I am reading to the 
Master. 



XLIL 

November 24, 1899. 
There was a gentle tapping at my door this 
morning, Wallie, and after some little time I 
answered it. I found your tame duck there. 
She waddled in, bowing and jabbering and get- 
ting between my feet, and ended by laying an 
egg on the hearth. She was determined that 
I should have a fresh egg for my breakfast, and 
I had it. I told Mrs. McDonald, and she said — 
"The pretty fule !" The raindrops made music 
on the roof in the night, and on the leaves that 
strewed the ground. I lay long time and lis- 
tened, a soothing in the melody that the world 
has not for its children, and heard only where 
the bluets gem the forests with enamels. I was 
just yielding to sleep when a meteor shot splen- 
dours on the night. I sprang to the window, 
but in a second it was gone. A light, though, 
appeared in the distance, and I said : "It has 
re-made itself, and is walking the black night 
with cheer for men." It came nearer and nearer, 
and presently there were voices, then the crush 
of leaves beneath the feet. How sombre and 
weird the old oaks looked, as the lantern flashed 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 69 

on them ! It was Mrs. iMcDonald returning from 
a call on Mrs. Bruce, and Halle was with her. 
In a moment he knocked at my door and brought 
me a last evening primrose that the madamt had 
plucked "from the bosom of the nicht;" and 
all night long it made a halo of pale gold on 
my pillow. I kept the lad all night, and we sat 
for an hour and read before the hearth. He 
found companionship in "Knickerbocker's History 
of New York," two rich volumes that I have just 
added to my books. A Wi41 o' the Wisp wan- 
dered alone in Orchis Valley, looking for the 
flower we love ; but a voice from the swamp 
where the Calthas sleep embalmed in gold told 
the spectral botanist that he must wait. All 
the morning the Monastery bells have tolled a 
requiem for that departed statesman and ruler — 
the Vice President. The lightning brought the 
tidings, and the Church of God tells the world 
that the Last Enemy has made the sons of men 
poorer by his latest conquest. Mrs. Bruce has 
just sent me a last wild rose from Cedar Aisle 
swamp. 



XLIIL 



November 25, 1899. 
I sat in last night's twilight, Wallie, and the 
leaves of the old apple tree made a translucent 
veil between me and the sky. Far off toward 
where the Andersons live, a hickory tree is still 
full of leaves, the richest copper and red bronze. 
Thus far it has fought with Atropos and held 



7o Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

its own. Beyond the forest, the mountains in 
their majesty stretch onward unto the horizon 
where the sky stamps them with the seal of the 
Upper Day, and all wrapt in the slumbrous light. 
There is a greatness taught by the hills that 
makes all Earth's cares so trivial. I sat on the 
lichened fence in Caltha Swamp this morning, 
while Stephen and I were out for an after-break- 
fast walk, and a sunbeam came rushing up the 
valley, impetuous with youth and glorious in 
power. There were splendours on his face, as 
he glanced hither and thither : and seeing a lit- 
tle stream bound captive, he went and crushed 
the ice-shackles in his grasp and set it free. Then 
the stream flowed on with summer music, and 
in its voices a prophecy of what next Spring will 
do throughout this whole vast realm of frost. 
We saw your friend, the eagle, on a lightning- 
bleached crag, and he looked so proudly round. 
I am glad that the gunners dare not approach 
the Master's domains. We went to Herbert's, 
and men in the fields were husking corn, and 
pumpkins lay round like fallen suns. Mrs. Gar- 
dener took us into her store-room and showed 
us a dozen golden pies and as many of mince : 
she is getting ready for this coming Thanksgiv- 
ing. The student heard us, and we persuaded 
him to come out with us, and we took dinner 
together at Stephen's, enjoying a dish of pot- 
pie as light as foam on the brook. I am back 
at the cabin now, and a linnet fills the whole 
house with song. And he is not in a cage : the 
Master has no fetters for his friends. Mrs. 
McDonald just here came to my desk to show 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 71 

me a basket of violets and ferns that he is go- 
ing to take to Mrs. Ageweight. She is going to 
take him out for a drive. I wish I could send 
you a breath of their fragrance. The dear scholar 
came to me a moment since with his Bible, his 
finger on the word — 'T will lift up mine eyes 
unto the Hills ;" and he said : "I think it a 
prophecy of that first Christmas night, seen by 
David on Bethlehem's Hills a thousand years 
before." 

XLIV. 

November 27, 1899. 
Yesterday was the Sunday next before Ad- 
vent, and we spent it quietly here among the 
hills. We were at both Masses and Evensong, 
and after dinner, Harry, Stephen and I went 
out among the russet leaves and the hemlocks. 
They came back with me and took supper. This 
morning I am alone : the Master and Mrs. Mc- 
Donald have driven to the Monastery to hear 
a rehearsal of Thanksgiving music. Stephen, of 
course, is there, and will come back with them 
to spend a half hour with "The Fern Bulletin." 
A robin sits on the hemlock near the study win- 
dows, singing his courageous song. The year 
is withered, the trees bare, the leaves whirling 
on the wind, the mountain avenues hard with 
frost : but this bird with his fine optimism ignores 
it all, his song is full of life, there is no dis- 
couragement in his breast. A full set of Tho- 
reau was sent to the Master last week for a 
Thanksg.iving^ gift, and that means hours of spir- 



72 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

itual joy this coming Winter. His pen portrays 
a life so infinitely removed from all that is sor- 
did and selfish. There would not be a suicide 
in the world if the unfortunate had within them 
the resources of that exalted ascetic. I sit be- 
fore a fire that snaps and roars and shoots light- 
nings round, the sun fills the library, and every 
tree outside is streaked with warm light. The 
robin has come into the house, has hopped about 
the floor, investigated a nook in the fire-place 
that he thinks would be a fine place for a nest. 
Now he sits on my desk, watching the movements 
of my pen, and chattering all the while. He 
seems almost to know what I have writ- 
ten — the dear bird ! He is gone now, but he 
left the warm crimson of a feather behind. The 
Master, Mrs. McDonald and Stephen have just 
come, and brought with them a fresh draught of 
the world outside. We will keep the singer for 
lunch. He called on Philip yesterday and found 
him with a severe headache. His little niece came 
and brought a beautiful white duck for him 
to see. The bird said "Quack, Quack !" and 
the medical student said it was a personal crit- 
icism of the Profession. Mrs. McDonald says — 
''A michty wise bird." 



XLV. 

November 29, 1899. 
The Master and I sat yesterday, Wallie, and 
watched the day into decrepitude. The naked 
trunks and branches of the forests against the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 73 

sky told that its reign was finished. Clouds 
in weird vesture attend the pageant, and here 
and there one as if scourged by rainbows. The 
funeral pyre of the Lost Yesterdays is prepared, 
and another King of the sapphire throne is 
burned. Night comes and smothers over the 
ashes with blackness and all is lost to the watch- 
ing eyes. The heavy purple cloth shuts the 
library from the world outside : the logs of the 
hearth burn with summer in their hearts ; as we 
sit dreaming, the Monastery bells ring the An- 
gelus through the mountains, and if there be 
the requiem of the lost day in the strains, there 
is beside the sure gladness and triumph of To- 
morrow. Mrs. McDonald comes in, puts an end 
to reverie by telling that supper is served. She 
opens the doors between the library and the din- 
ing-room — and the glass, the silver, the linen, the 
centre-piece of violets, the dainty savors of the 
supper were all so delightful. She had a dish 
of trout garnished with nasturtium, and was 
as pleased as the Master. It was her turn then 
to be astonished, for the Master had remembered 
her birthday. She stepped to the kitchen for a 
moment, and when she came back, she found 
at her place a cut-glass bowl of Cattleya or- 
chids. It was delightful to see her pleasure. 
Harry was here for the night, and Mrs. Mc- 
Donald had some of her famous waffles for him. 
He enjoyed looking over a lot of Christmas gift 
books that came to the Master last week by 
express. They will be given out to the boys 
Christmas Eve, but there are a couple of them 
which the Master would not show the lad. I 



74 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

got him up in time and drove him to his office, 
and the stars lighted us on our way. It is hushed 
this morning. Not a sound in the bleak woods. 
A dull ashen colour came with the sunrise, and 
there is a dream of snow in the clouds. The 
old trunks look centuries older. The Master 
and the Abbot give a load of turkeys through 
the hills for to-morrow. And the boys will be 
here to-night for a little feast. 



XLVL 



December i, 1899. 
December with its great aggregate of festivals 
and splendours is come. Alleluia ! Mrs. McDon- 
ald stood with me, Wallie, watching the sun- 
rise, and she said to the new day: ''Ah, ye had 
a long black journey through the nicht!" A 
tiny rivulet flashed on mine eyes late in the eve 
of Thanksgiving. It was like a thread of sil- 
ver, and could have been held in the hollow of 
an hand. I thought how all the rivers are born 
among the hills ; and how they are swathed in 
the light; and how their Cloud-Mothers weep 
over them with farewells, before sending them 
forth from their fountain homes, out into the vast 
world with their blessings for Mankind. It was 
a fine night, and the hills were hushed. The 
stars came close down, and there were signal 
fires kindled at Ageweight and the Monastery 
and Monksrest. At 5 a. m. to-day, the Monas- 
tery bells rang out the summons to the Christ's 
Presence, and then Mass again at 11 with the 




Oriijinal hy John DeCamiK 

MRS. Mcdonald. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 75 

Chapel crowded. The Abbot preached on pa- 
triotism and a deeper spiritual love for the Flag. 
The Master and his guests went into the library 
a while with the Abbot, and then all drove home 
to the cabin, and we dined at 2. The Nation- 
al bird was roasted unto the richest brown, 
the cranberries and the Baldwin apples shone 
like the Prinos berries in the swamps, the sun 
made radiance on the glass and the damask and 
the silver, the aromas that drifted in from the 
kitchen were in themselves a feast. The table 
was fragrant with carnations, and our dessert 
was green-kouse strawberries — Brandywines. 
Every place was filled ; and, by the Master's kind 
permission, the two lads whom I tutored that 
month in the city had a welcome seat with us. 
The day was hushed, and a light of pearl and 
gold lay on the hills until sunset. It was a day 
of balm and rest on all the mountain-side, and 
one hardly realized that it was gone, until the 
vast silences were filled with stars. The guests 
are gone now : the two lads, Frank and Douglas 
Kimball have gone upstairs, gloriously tired out ; 
the Master and I sit alone in the library, and the 
embers trace sleepy shadows on the wall ; our 
minds are bondmen to dreams. I feel that the 
pages of my book are steeped in Lethe. I must 
draw the curtains, shut out the world, commit 
myself to the kindly stars. My last drowsi- 
ness of thought is of that furious wind, a few 
days agone, that raged against a branch of an 
apple tree in flower near a ledge of rock. How 
strange to see apple blossoms in November ! The 
soft pink petals fluttered quietly down to the 



76 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

bosom of a Symplocarpiis, and the wind might 
as well have stormed the rocks themselves as 
that sturdy plant. 



XLVIL 



December 2, 1899. 
Yesterday evening at 5 we sat and watched the 
lights drift on the great deep of night ; tired men 
hurrying to the rest and haven of their homes. 
Stephen was with us for supper, and when the 
meal was finished, we sat in the study until 
10. The quiet of the night rested in the rich 
folds of the drapery, the candles gave their pale 
radiance, the logs filled the room with summer, 
and the books led us into the presence of the 
truest aristocracy in the world. Stephen read 
''Woodstock/' and the Master told us of his visit 
there in the long past years. After breakfast 
Stephen and I went out into the woods of grey 
and gold, and I walked with him to his home. 
We came upon the apple blossoms against the 
ledge of rocks, as I wrote you last, and the 
lush of the grass was all pink and white from 
their scented petals. The brook dashed little 
silver bells against the rocks ; dandelions looked 
out from the drifted leaves : and a choir of bees 
sang that it is still a land of honey, although the 
year has ebbed out unto the Lost Yesterdays. We 
stood at the gate of the avenue, where last Spring 
that one blazing hawkweed stood sentinel, and 
thought how short a time ere the hills will be 
covered with flowers again as thick as stars. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. ']^ 

Many voices of the woods made music, wel- 
coming the new month — the child of the year's 
old age — that lies swathed in fringe of clouds 
and sunbeams ; and a crow whispered that the 
little hand of the new-born Prince as delicate 
as a pink shell, will never wield the sceptre of 
a stern King. His reign will be mild : and Sum- 
mer will not weigh anchor for The Vale of i\v- 
alon, until the Christmas songs shall have filled 
the dome with worship. Returning, I found the 
Abbot on his porch ; the boys are all at work 
again ; Mrs. Bruce is trying to subdue the chaos 
that took possession after the National Feast, 
I went to Cleft Rock, and a bush of red berries 
burned me a welcome. At Monksrest I found 
a perfect wilderness of morning-glories, the deep- 
est softest purple, hundreds upon hundreds, twin- 
ing, twisting, clasping, their leaves a luxuriance 
of green against the light. The frost came and 
looked upon the sight and then sped away, ra- 
diant in its dust of crystals, feeling that here it 
had no place. The rest of the day I will spend 
with the Master in quiet. 



XLVIII. 



December 3, 1899. 
The Master and I watched yesterday's sunset, 
from the library windows, Wallie, and then all the 
clouds girded their golden cinctures and sped 
back unto the Orient to strew the fields of the 
East with the fire seeds of another day. Then 
came the darkness, swift and thick and silent; 



yS Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

and then the lights on the hills of weary men 
going back to their cosey homes. We drew the 
curtains, and the world was narrowed unto the 
bounds of our candles and the hearth-fire. A 
blue-bird sang the day to rest, and in the morn- 
ing, too, his voice drifted on the clouds of in- 
cense that rolled among the hills. A bunch of 
Winter berry and ferns and witch-hazels and 
twigs of hemlock with their burrs is on the desk 
in the library, and gives us all the concentrated 
beauty of swamp and forest. Stephen walked 
back to the cabin with me after Mass this morn- 
ing and brought them to the Master. We kept 
him for breakfast, and we went back to the later 
service together, the heavy Gregorian music, 
the sun flashing on the uplifted Host, and a vivid 
picturing of the Last Judgment. We are all 
in the library, Harry is with us and will stay 
all the early evening. The other boys will hardly 
be with us again until the 23rd. The dining- 
room was like genial spring weather, while the 
air outside was like sparkling cider. Mrs. Mc- 
Donald gave us a roast turkey, cranberry, and 
a mince-pie for dessert. We had, instead of cof- 
fee, a glass of cider that stung like the air. A 
stalk of chrysanthemum, a month ago, crept close 
to the library windows to get a blessing from 
the hearth, and there it remains to-day, in all the 
brilliancy of its sunset gold. The owls here in 
the dim light say that the Winter has changed 
its character, and that September, like Per- 
sephone, has stolen back again. Beginning with 
this Advent Sunday, Father Max gives 5-min- 
tite talks at Evensong. To-day he defined 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 79 

Death as the condition in which a soul is in- 
capable of holiness. We are just in from Even- 
song: Harry is with us. The lights are on 
the hills again — the devout folk going home from 
the service. The Master is reading the Proph- 
ecy of Isaiah, that great Niagara crash of The 
Christ's triumph in INIen's souls. 



XLIX. 



December 4, 1899. 
The day has changed, Wallie, from grey to 
gold, and it is like Spring here among the hills. 
The Caltha Swamp is bordered with grass like 
April, the woods are sweet with scent of rains, 
and the branches of the trees hang tremulous 
with pearls. The hemlocks are warm, and the 
blue-bird that came last week continues his 
stay among them. The world outside does not 
invade this realm of Peace : there is here con- 
tinually that strong health wdiich draws souls 
nearer into the skies. The Master has gone 
for a morning walk to the Monastery, and as I 
lift mine eyes he is coming back. As far away 
as Bluet Ridge I see a bunch of Prinos berries 
in his hand, burning with its globes of fire. Jamie 
trusted himself to the guidance of a star and 
Avent down the black mountain-side to get a 
box of orchids sent by Mr. and Mrs. Clark, 
in remembrance of their Thanksgiving visit. 
The box is on the porch, and will greet the Mas- 
ter on his return. The green-house has no end 
of blossoms this morning: the banana-tree has 



8o Mountain Walks of a Recluse, 

some fruit almost ripe, and there will be some 
fine oranges for Christmas. Mrs. McDonald has 
just filled the dish with violets, so that Heaven 
will look into the Master's face when next he 
takes his seat at the desk. I stop to put my 
face down into their fragrant depths to worship 
their pure souls. The fire bums with dreamy 
voices, with now and again a tongue of flame 
that tells how soon Atropos will stop cutting 
short the Day's cord of life : the weary journey 
to the depths of the Solstice is nearly finished. 
The sun will soon turn back again. We have 
finished dinner and are back again in the library 
with its welterings of sunshine. Stephen opened 
the box that Jamie brought from the station, and 
it was full of Cattleyas and Dendrobiums, fresh 
and vigourous, full of buds and blossoms. They 
are all potted and in the windows, and we are 
all enjoying them to the utmost. The lad is 
going to take the Master out for a drive, and 
they will stop to leave a Cattleya with the lad's 
mother. With what haste Harry will get here 
after hearing of them ! The buggy is at the 
door. They are gone. I see them sauntering 
over Bluet Ridge. The colt behaves with great 
dignity. 



L. 

December 5, 1899. 
I went yesterday far beyond the bounds of the 
mountains, Wallie, and returning, talked at the 
road-side with a man who had stooped to pick 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 8i 

a last stalk of gyrostachys for his little daugh- 
ter at home. As we talked, a man with a gun 
over his shoulder passed by; and my new ac- 
quaintance said : "I used to shoot, but have 
not touched a gun for years." Pointing in the 
direction of Ageweight he continued : "It was 
over there." Then he told how he had sat one 
day on a ledge of rocks, his dogs around him ; 
when suddenly a man stood before him, order- 
ing him away. His feet made no sound on the 
gravel road ; he waved his hand and the sunlight 
passed through it : he seemed like one that had 
been long time dead. The rabbits crept to him 
for protection, and the dogs crouched in fear 
at the hunter's feet. "I did not need the sec- 
ond warning to go," added the man. "And I 
have never touched a gun since, for fear of 
meeting that dreadful apparition." I told the 
Master, and he quoted quietly from Hamlet : 
"V\\ make a ghost of him that lets me." 

The mountains are cold to-day and the wind 
is harsh. Winter is everywhere, and no place 
is warm but the hemlocks and the swamps with 
their red berries. We appreciate the hearth-fire, 
and sit and watch the thousand generations of 
sunset that burn in its depths. It held me a 
willing captive, and I had to rouse myself to 
go to Monksrest. I contrasted the Puritan se- 
verity with the tropical languor that filled all the 
drought-burnt avenues last August. The green- 
houses there are still ablaze w^ith summer, the 
morning-glories still lift to heaven their purple 
chalices of light. I spoke to the old gardener 
of his love for them, and he answered me that 



82 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

it Is the most soothing colour in the world. These 
blossoms have but a few hours of life, but they 
burn the memory with splendours that last a 
life-time. Mrs. Gardener will take my note 
to-day, and on her return from the valley will 
stop and dine with us. We had letters to-day 
from the boys, and they are busy getting ready 
for Examinations. 



LI. 

December 6, 1899. 
I was out on the mountains last night, Wallle, 
with Harry who was looking for a Christmas 
tree. He cut a young spruce that drenched 
all the way home with its incense odours. The 
moon made a luminous silver mist through all 
the avenues where the frost jewels glistened like 
stars, and the old trees threw the shadows of the 
1 6th century across our way. It was cold 
though, and I took the lad back to the cabin 
with me for an hour. He read ''Macbeth" un- 
til 9, and then we prevailed on him to stay all 
night, and that Jamie would take his tree down 
the mountains In the morning. Mrs. McDonald 
stole In before we were awake this morning, and 
put fresh wood on the sleeping coals, and pres- 
ently the flames flashed up with scent of dried 
moss and leaves, the delicious smell that re- 
Imlnds one of the hidden retreats of the forest 
when the moccasin orchids are In bloom. After 
Harry left, I climbed the hill where the Mas- 
ter has had some w'ood cut, and found a com- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 83 

pany of snowflakes looking round for winter 
quarters. They are as light as thistle-down. How 
strange that they can block the world's prog- 
ress ! I paused a moment at the Indian woman's 
grave, and thought how deep the mystery that 
here should be the Gate of Life ! The wind 
was soft in the pine tree over her grave, like 
soothing voices from that Paradise of rest. A 
robin sang his glad song as he feasted among 
the warm cedars, and I found a dandelion on 
Veronica Pass that had all the gold of i\Iay on 
its disk. The dainty blossom in its efforts to 
find the sunshine has had the courage to defy 
the merciless frosts, and for the lesson that it 
taught, I held it close to my heart in love. I 
went then to the Monastery and read Matins 
with them ; and the Gregorian music, and the Ad- 
vent Psalms were so appropriate for this bleak 
stern world of hills. Of course, I had to ex- 
tend my walk to Cleft Rock, and then to Monks- 
rest, where I tarried a while with the old gar- 
dener who was cutting carnations and violets. 
I contrasted the nakedness with the June nights 
when all the air quivered with the songs of 
whippoorwills. Stephen came along and I took 
him home with me for dinner. We had a roast 
turkey. 

LIT 

December 7, 1899. 
Atropos sped to the east and barred the prog- 
ress of the day again, Wallie ; and evening after 
evening in the gates of the sunset, the same 



84 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

remorseless Fate cuts short the day's cord of 
life, and the withered minutes are strewn round 
the Solstice, while the year laments the buds 
of Time that would have developed into the fin- 
est fragrances of Light. Two men have just 
passed, one in his carriage. His home has all 
that the luxurious life of to-day can give. The 
other man has very little of what the Scotch 
would call this world's ''gear." And yet there is 
in his life a peace, a calm, a glory that the other 
man would give all his wealth to obtain. The 
man of little means can walk to Monksrest and 
spend a few minutes with the old gardener in 
the purple splendours of the morning-glories, 
and go away again with an intense joy that noth- 
ing can disturb. His wealthy brother has no joy. 
What makes the difference? The many call 
the one man a splendid success, but his care- 
worn face tells that he is not satisfied ! 

There was a light snow yesterday, and then 
the sun came out again with the soft brilliancy 
of Spring. The flakes lay on the russet leaves 
like white violets on dainty shells of pearl, and on 
the bushes of the swamp they lay in long stretches 
of whiteness like shining azaleas. The Master 
sits before the hearth with his Bible. He has 
just read me from The Psalms the line, "All the 
trees of the wood shall rejoice before the Lord." 
And the minstrelsy of the forests as I write makes 
the words as true as when they first flashed from^ 
the Poet's burning heart in that long ago. Mrs. 
McDonald is busy and glad to-day : the Ab- 
bot and Father Max, Stephen and Halle, are td 
dine with us at 6. She has a "brace o' fules" 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 85 

and a turkey, a dish of spinach, a quince jelly- 
cake and a cup of coffee. The centre piece will 
be a vase of Marechal roses, and the four large 
silver candle-sticks with their candles are tied 
with purple satin bows. The table looks beau- 
tiful, and she is justly proud of her handiwork. 
The lawn is a soft green, and a dandelion lifts 
its face in thankfulness. Mrs. McDonald has 
put a protecting leaf round it. The Angelus ! 
It is noon. 

LIII. 

December 8, 1899. 
I watched the dusk permeate the twilight yes- 
terday evening, Wallie, and then the lanterns 
flashed on the drear hills, as on other nights. The 
bell rang out clear and thrilling for Evensong, 
and I went, meeting with Mrs. Anderson on 
the way. She had a letter from Harold in the 
morning. Father Max had a five-minute talk 
on The Judgment, and said that the truest con- 
ception of its meaning is by the man who strives 
more and more to make his character like the 
character of Jesus Christ. The Bar of Con- 
science — it is the Bar of God. He who is to look 
The Christ in the face the Last Day must see 
Him now in his own triumph over self. We 
all walked together to the cabin after the serv- 
ice; and the lights and the summer warmth 
from the hearth welcomed us. Just as we 
sat down to dinner, there came a quiet knock 
at the kitchen door. Mrs. McDonald answered, 
and we heard her exclaim with surprised pleas- 



86 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

ure : ''Dear bairn !" Harry had brought a 
basket of Northern Spies to the Master, and 
the Master, hearing his voice, would not let 
him go. We kept him not only for dinner, 
but all night. Mrs. McDonald said "the nicht" 
was too "dour" for him to go home. He and 
Stephen played chess, and the Master watched 
them. The sun rose gloriously this morning, 
but drifted immediately into banks of clouds. 
I lighted Harry down the hills at 6, and through- 
out the mountains was that hushed expec- 
tancy of snow. The brook is rimmed with 
ice, and the berries of the swamp glow with a 
deeper red against the leaden sky. I look out 
to Breakfast Rock, and a crow sits there tak- 
ing a bit of refreshment. I know not what, but 
imagine it something suited to his taste, for he 
seems content with himself and all the world. 
Mrs. McDonald goes about her work quietly. 
I can hardly believe it the same woman that 
convulsed us with laughter last night in her read- 
ing of that delicious satire from Burns, "Death 
and Dr. Hornbook." She is a rare actress. Just 
now a cloud of milkweed seeds drifts past the li- 
brary on their silvery-down wings, and a flock 
of sparrows comes to tell the Master the hunger 
of their hearts. 

LIV. 

December 9, 1899. 
I met the Indian mother this morning, Wallie, 
at the French and Indian Cave under Bluet Ridge. 
She had been to the graves of her people, and 




Original hi/ John DeCamp. 

Cardinal Brook. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. ^"j 

the Abbot had said Mass on the old stone Altar. 
I looked in, by her permission, and the two lights 
still burned and the Crucifix showed the mystery 
of Calvary. It was warm at the entrance to 
the cave : the grass green and soft : the rocks 
hidden by the tangle of vines — a net-work of 
swollen buds in expectation of Spring, ''Like 
the Dust within," said the old mother. Violets 
blossomed in the shelter, and she gave me some 
to take with me. I told the Master, and he said 
he would take me to call on her. We went 
right after lunch to her cabin, hidden in a cleft 
of rocks, and Cardinal Brook running close to 
her door. Her name is Convallaria because it 
was thick with lilies of the valley all around 
the cabin when she was born. Her windows were 
full of crocuses, and a spinning-wheel showed 
that her own hands had made all the linen 
drapery around. A white duck waddled round 
and jabbered and shook her head against her mis- 
tress' skirts, so glad she had come home. The 
Master led the way into the cabin, and the two 
aged souls confronted each other. She stretched 
out her hands, and said : ''Anne and Simeon 
of Jerusalem have met !" And it gave new force 
to that old Gospel Hymn. I left them with 
each other for an hour, and called for the Mas- 
ter on my way from a call on Mrs. Bruce. The 
old mother was glad, and promised to come and 
spend Sunday at Ageweight, the first visit for 
some months. About the Master's age — the veil 
worn unto a mist that hardly conceals the mys- 
tery of that vast Eternity ! We are back at the 



88 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

cabin now. Mrs. McDonald freshens up the 
coals, draws the curtains of the library, and 
leaves the Master to a little quiet before sup- 
per. I am in my corner in the dining-room, 
watching the lights on the hills. I have half 
an hour before Evensong. It is now 6 p. m. 
Am just in from service, and have brought Halle. 
Father Max had a five-minute talk on the Sym- 
bolism of The Revelation, and it was very beau- 
tiful. The Cross, the Tree of Life, blossoms in 
the whole Bible's prophecies. 



LV. 

December id, 1899. 
It is the Second Sunday in Advent : the sol- 
emn season is hurrying on. The Master went 
to the first Mass at 7. Mrs. McDonald and I 
were at the three services. On the Master's re- 
turn he walked to the brow of the mountain and 
lighted a fire of leaves as a signal to Harry to 
come and spend the day at the cabin. The 
soft, thin clouds of turquoise smoke made the 
bleak air seem warm. The lad answered the 
signal by waving a handkerchief, and came after 
the second service. Convallaria, too, came, as 
she promised. I noted in particular that the 
whiteness of that Throne has drifted upon her 
heavily. Her head Is like snow. The Master 
and herself, looking with such indomitable faith 
unto the things which must be hereafter, make 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 89 

that Life so intensely real. Mrs. McDonald has 
always waited on her like a queen, and to-day 
she captured the Scotch woman's heart by her 
admiration of a picture of Mary Stuart. The 
Abbot told a Persian legend in his sermon at 
II. It is this: A man went at midnight to the 
house of one whom he knew well, and asked 
admission. ''Who art thou?" 

'Tt is thy friend." And the answer came : 

''Depart and let another take thee in, for my 
house is not large enough for two." He came 
again when a year had passed, and said : "It 
is thyself." And then that other took him in and 
gave him all he asked. In his application of the 
story, the Abbot said that The Christ came in 
Man's Nature, saying: 'Tt is Thyself," and 
the World has taken The Man of Sorrows unto 
its inmost heart. 

It is warm as I write. There is a sweet scent 
of rain in the woods, and the red berries of the 
swamp so well defined in the white frosts of 
yesterday, are scarcely seen to-day. Some crows 
are on the lawn, discussing whether an ear of 
com be theirs or the robin's. The red-breasts, 
though, seem content that the crows should have 
the grain to themselves. 

6 p. M. Am just in from Evensong and Har- 
ry with me. He will stay until morning. We 
are watching the lights in the solemn dusk — 
the faithful going from service. The Master is 
reading Isaiah to Convallaria and Mrs. McDon- 
ald. 



90 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

LVI. 

December 12, 1899. 
I saw Atfopos lurking in the Solstice again 
this morning, Wallie : but I saw, too, the bar- 
riers that cannot be passed, the year is on the 
turn. The vistas of the hills are so soft : no 
harshness anywhere. The south wind stirs among 
the woods with voices of Spring, and there are 
dashes of rain that bud all the trees with trem- 
ulous stars. It began shortly after daybreak. 
I sat at 5 and read Matins in my corner, a candle 
giving m.€ light and companionship. The darkness 
pressed heavily against the pane, and presently 
there were lights on all the hills — men going 
to their work. I think of the June nights when 
all the gloom was a tropic warmth, and fire- 
flies drifted 'neath their sails of passionless flame. 
The whistle of the train rises — it is 7 A. m. now, 
and I know that it is passing through the swamp 
where the Symplocarpus brotherhood wrapt in 
the cowls of many colours defy the frosts. A 
dear crow looks from his window in the hem- 
locks, his wise head on one side, and I think of 
that beautiful verse in The Psalms where the 
Father of all speaks, saying: 'T know all the 
fowls upon the mountains." The coffee tells me 
it is breakfast-time, and Mrs. McDonald confirms 
the word. We have buckwheat cakes, and I 
see again the fields of three months ago all white 
and sweet and melodious with bees. Stephen 
comes in, bringing the mail ; in time to take a 
seat at the table with us. Mrs. McDonald says, 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 91 

"I ken weel ye can take a scrappet mair o' break- 
fast." It wears on toward noon and the storm 
increases. Darkness hovers over Ageweigiit, 
Madame says I need a "Hcht," and she touches 
the candle of my desk with inspirations from the 
hearth. The star of its flame cHngs faithfully 
to the wick, and promises not to cease its guid- 
ance until I shall have finished my work. The 
world's old heart has never lost its sen- 
timent, for, though all kinds of lights have mul- 
tiplied, the candle still keeps its place in the 
affections of men. Mrs. McDonald is reading 
'The Little Minister" to the Master, and he tells 
her there has not been a better book written in 
twenty years. Mrs. Bruce has just come : she 
is to take dinner with us and has brought a box 
of callas and carnations, sent by the school- 
boys. 



LVIL 

December 13, 1899. 
It cleared yesterday at sunset, Wallie, and this 
morning I went out early for a walk. It is 
more like April than December. I turned in- 
stinctively to the ledges of rock where soon the 
warm kisses of the sun will make the Spring 
blush with the fire of columbines. With the 
spiritual eyes I saw the low meadows white with 
acres of bloodroot, and the steeps hung with 
fragile bleeding hearts, in the air of mingled 
green and gold. Last night we sat long time 
in the moonlight, and it lay like great silver bios- 



92 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

soms on the floor. The far-off hills under its in- 
fluence seemed no more substantial than the 
clouds ; and when I had gone to bed, the beams 
of light took their silver flutes and lured me 
into oblivion with their melodies. This morn- 
ing, too, long before day-break, I stood at the 
windows, looking out where the last watch of 
the night had kindled its fires at the gates of 
the Orient. Night was preparing to flee unto 
the realms of shadow, and a few last stars stood 
at the fires of the east, shivering. All the 
brooks are filled again, and the hills resound with 
their songs, sweet voices that soothe and bless. 
I wish you were here. The Master sits in the 
porch looking toward Caltha Swamp, and dawdles 
over a well-known little book : "How to Know 
the Wild Flowers." I know the mention of the 
book will take you right back to Florida. I have 
just read him one of Lord's Lectures — Ignatius 
Loyola, and there was something of the giant 
ascetic's enthusiasm in it. It is nearly noon now. 
I went out after the reading, down into the val- 
ley for a couple of hours. I found that Harry 
was home, and I sat with him in his little study 
half an hour. "Othello" lay on his table, and 
he was just finishing "Hamlet." A vase of 
mignonette that Mrs. Monroe gave the lad was 
on his desk. The sunshine fell warm on a plate 
of Northern Spies, but the apples were not there 
after I left. Mrs. McDonald announces dinner. 
We have a steak, a dish of spinach and a baked 
Hubbard squash, one of a half dozen that Mrs. 
Gardener sent. A crow sits in the hemlock, and 
the lawn is full of robins so tame that they will 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 93 

not move out of your way — the dear red-breasts ! 
I>etters from the boys say that the three will be 
home the 20th. 



LVIIL 

December 14, 1899. 

A star broke from its moorings last night, Wal- 
lie, as I stood by the window, and it broke in 
splendours over Ageweight. There seemed a 
music in its very movements, and the night was 
lonelier, darker after it was gone. It is still like 
Spring here among the hills, and the brooks 
rush swiftly on their way, dashing foam on the 
rocks, and leaving a trail of sweet songs behind. 
The sun shines on the trunks of the trees, and the 
dome is upheld by their innumerable golden col- 
umns. The hemlocks are keeping their summer 
festival, and speak comfort to the trees that wait 
for Spring. 

Only seven more sunsets to the Solstice, and 
then Atropos must lay aside the shears : the lost 
Light, like Persephone, will return. Mrs. Mc- 
Donald has just been to the study to show me a 
pot of preserved shad-berry which Convallaria 
has just brought, and I know we will enjoy it 
just from sentiment if nothing more. How short 
a time ere the ledges will all be fringed again 
with its blossoms ! And what unapproachable 
places they choose ! Such a manifest protest 
against intrusion. They keep an aristocratic se- 
clusion. I never see them without thinking of 
a company of Angels or the risen Dead. They 



94 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

conquer the frosts, and yet their blossoms are 
as evanescent as the foam on the mountain tor- 
rent. I went and read Lord's "Cranmer" to the 
Abbot, and he was as impatient as myself. The 
lecturer is just to Cranmer's broad-mindedness 
and liberality of thought; but he makes him the 
founder of a sect, instead of the conservative 
leader that kept the continuity of the English 
Church. One cannot understand Cranmer with- 
out knowing the Prayer-book of 1549, through 
and through, and that Book Lord does not know. 
The old Creeds, the old Sacraments, the old 
Apostolic Ministry Cranmer insisted on, and was 
the master mind in the movement that kept Cath- 
olic verities intact. Mrs. Bruce walked with me 
to Monksrest, and when the hosts of morning- 
glories turned the purple searchlight of their eyes 
into her soul-depths, she said it was like facing 
the Day of Judgment. The Master sends his 
love. The Indian mother, too, sends her love. 
I stopped there tO' see the Crocuses in her win- 
dows coin gold, and to listen to the songs of 
Cardinal Brook as it dashed the mist of rain- 
bows on her lawn. 



LIX. 

December 15, 1899. 
It is a morning of grey and gold again, Wal- 
lie : dashes of clouds, and then great welterings 
of sunshine. The berries are so very red in the 
swamp, and the button-wood trees are so white 
against the sombre banks of clouds. The white 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 95 

birches stand like groups of frightened ghosts. 
The Master walked last night to the brow of 
the mountain, and saw a far-off light in the val- 
ley which he knew to shine from the study of 
"Echoes from i\Iossy Glens." The young au- 
thor was at work, and the light was spokesman 
for his fluent pen. There are grand chords and 
harmonies of song among the hills to-day, and 
I recall the words of that mighty soul-mover, 
the Poet-Prophet Isaiah, in his clarion invocation : 
"Break forth into singing, ye mountains ; O for- 
est and every tree therein." There is no master 
passion of poetry like the poetry of that Old Book. 
In my reading to the Master this morning, the 
subject was "Henry of Navarre" in Lord's "Bea- 
con Lights of History," the book of lectures that 
has entertained and instructed us of late. I don't 
agree with the author that the King renounced 
his faith for the throne of France. I think it was 
an act of far-sighted judgment and statesman- 
ship. Not "expediency" at all, but a patriotism 
that sought the best for a country broken and 
impoverished by war. The unity of France and 
the lives of her people were dearer to Henry 
than the despicable feuds of Catholic and Hu- 
guenot. After the reading, the Master went down 
to the Indian mother's cabin, where he revelled 
in the Erythroniums with their glistening leaves 
of bronze and green. She went with him to the 
Monastery for prayers, and then he brought her 
home for the rest of the day. It is a pretty sight 
to see the wild things of the hills come about 
her, no more afraid than her own Cardinal Brook. 
She sits now by the hearth with "In Memoriam," 



96 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

her finger on the Hne, "The time draws near 
the Birth of Christ." I liave been out for a 
walk, and have brought Stephen home to dine 
with us. As we came up on the porch, a whirl 
of last Summer's leaves in their shrouds swept 
past us, a voice from the realms of Death bur- 
dened with tidings of Life. 



LX. 

December 16, 1899. 
Atropos has been forced to stay her hand, 
Wallie. There came a minute more of light 
with the sunset yesterday, and it wrenched the 
shears from the hand of the hateful fate, and 
hurled them far into the depths of the Solstice. 
The year is faced this way again, and back of 
it, all the fullness of bud and blossoming, the 
power and the splendour of Summer. The hills 
are hushed to-day; but the sunshine is full and 
strong. The frost and the ice are melting under 
its power. The Master has just come in from 
the green-house with long stalks of chrysan- 
thema in his hands. They fill the study with 
the odours of frankincense. The sunshine of 
these short days has been captured by them and 
held vigourously on their golden disks. Stephen 
went yesterday right after dinner, for the Mas- 
ter told him to go and get Harry and come back 
to take supper and play chess and spend the 
night. The sun went down, the darkness came, the 
lights went up the mountain-side, and the Mon- 
astery bell rang for Evensong. I found Stephen 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 97 

and Harry there, and we came ]>ack together. 
Stephen brought a box of mignonette to the Mas- 
ter and it filled the whole house. I sat a while 
in my corner, and the night came close to the 
window and looked at me with its sorrowful 
eyes. The leaves rustled, the wind moaned as 
if in remorse for all its past crimes, the bleak 
woods stretched out their arms and wailed for 
the lost Day. How different, though, all withia 
the cabin ! The warmth, the fire, the light, the 
fragrance, and the restful isolation gave us com- 
fort and pleasure. I went out and stood a mo- 
ment under the hemlocks, and the wind was 
like the music of falling snowflakes. We had 
such a cosey supper and our very seclusion 
was hospitality. The lad beat Stephen at chess, 
and the Master and I got so much interested 
in the game that we stopped our reading to watch 
it. Mrs. McDonald and the good Indian mother 
are down to the cabin of the latter. She wanted 
to feed her wild pets. She sees that I am look- 
ing, and waves a daffodil, and the dear blos- 
soms seem to make all the harsh air soft. They 
have just reached the kitchen, and Mrs. Mc- 
Donald has a letter from Philip. 



LXI. 

December 17, 1899. 

It Is the Third Sunday in Advent, and nearly 

noon. I am alone in the cabin. The Master 

and Mrs. McDonald are at Mass. I went to 

the first service. The sky is grey, the hills are 



98 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

hushed, the sun makes Its journey through clouds 
of snow. The hearth-fire burns in silence, a 
rich bed of coals. The old clock that kept 
Christmas 1799, ticks on in the same strength of 
youth, and there are spring faces and voices in 
the erythromiums and the violets that blossom 
into loveliness and fragrance in this calm retreat. 
How still it is here ! A deep sleep holds the 
study, and in it there is an eloquence of rest. 
I see the phaeton on Bluet Ridge, the Master 
and Mrs. McDonald are coming home f'*om 
Mass. I put aside my pen to welcome them. 
There is a new freshening up of the coals as they 
come in, and they have brought with them the 
freshness of the hills. 

It is now 3 P. M. The Master is asleep. Mrs. 
Bruce and Mrs. McDonald are in the study. I 
am in my nook in the dining-room, and Halle 
Seton who took dinner with us sits with me. Dr. 
and Mrs. Ageweight called just as dinner was 
over, but had a bit of fruit-cake and a glass of 
cider. We talked of Philip, and his comiing 
next week brightens his mother's face even now. 
Mrs. McDonald comes in just here, taps my 
shoulder and points to Bluet Ridge. Stephen 
is coming, "that "ne'er-do-weel," as she calls 
him, she is so fond of him. He has brought 
the loveliest long trailing vines of bitter-sweet, 
and the good mother will put them up over the 
windows for Christmas. Father Max talked at 
Evensong on the crowns, the palms, the songs,, 
the white robes of Heaven. "What is there in 
all these," he asked, "to interest the strong, prac- 
tical man in his contemplation of that other 



Mountain Walks of a P^ecluse. 99 

Life?" They mean whiteness of character, and 
the triumph of Humanity through Christ, and 
the oneness of Man's Will with God's. I heard 
Mr. Monroe thanking him after service. Harry 
came home with me, and the blackness clung 
to us on the way, a weird personality in it, it 
was so heavy. As I close my note, a loose vine 
taps at the wnndow, and I think of His words : 
''Behold ! I stand at the door and knock." 



LXH. 

December 19, 1899. 
Earth and sky are wrapped in grey this morn- 
ing, Wallie, but the grey is worn imto shreds, 
and the gold beyond flashes through. The ledges 
of rock near the cabin drip with spring rain, 
and the mosses and the lichens are luminous with 
a rare beauty. A robin is busy about the ledge, 
but the wuld cherries are all gone now, and he 
is a staunch advocate of temperance, or rather, 
total abstinence is his theme. If there were any- 
thing of an exhilarating nature at hand, I fear 
his abstinence would, like Rip Van Winkle's, be 
deferred until the next time. I think, as I look 
at the beautiful fellow, in how short a time the 
red of his breast will act on the columbines and 
start them into life. I was at the Monastery 
yesterday, and the boys were frolicking, leaping, 
dashing about like the brooks — and well they 
might. Examinations are all over, and they are 
going home for Christmas on the 21st. Mrs. 
McDonald gfives them all a dinner in her kitchen 



ILofO. 



loo Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

to-morrow night, and it will be a glad time, in- 
deed. I met two of them near Monksrest, and, 
putting on a very serious manner, I told them 
I wanted them to make me a promise. They 
were awed and knew not what to say. Then 
I told them I wanted them to promise that they 
would not study too hard during the vacation. 
Then I went my way, but I heard the lads smil- 
ing still when I was half way home. We will 
have pleasant visits from the Abbot and dear 
Mrs. Bruce and Halle Seton during the twO' 
weeks. Jamie was on the hills with his axe 
the other day, and I heard its vigourous music 
in the clear, crisp air. This morning the Yule 
Log lies at the door, waiting for Christmas Eve. 
The same old fire-place that kept the great feast 
a hundred years ago: and as I look into the 
depths of coals, I think of the influences that have 
gone forth from this dear retreat to make the 
homes of Men more like the Home of Nazareth. 
Stephen is going to take the Master out for a 
drive, and the lad will stay for dinner on their 
return. He will enjoy the box of oranges that 
came to the Master last night from Mrs. El- 
liot, one of his friends in Florida. 



Lxni. 



December 21, 1899. 
Mrs. Bruce came early to the cabin this morn- 
ing, Wallie, and she and Mrs. McDonald and 
the old Indian mother went out into the woods 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. loi 

for evergreens. All the hills were sifted over 
with dust of pearls, and the frost lay white on 
the old roads, and all the trees were red with 
sunshine. It was health just to breathe the un- 
defiled air, and to feel the crisp leaves break 
under foot. The boys were here last night for 
their dinner, the feast to which the Master had 
invited them, and the pleasure of it all still thrills 
our minds and hearts. Their fine, handsome 
faces and exuberant health, their capacity of 
strong character, their hidden power to go out 
and prove themselves world-movers : I thought 
of all these as they feasted with us, and trust that 
they may accomplish the work which the Father 
has enabled them to do. The Master took them 
into the library after dinner, and gave them 
gifts and his Christmas blessing. The woods 
rang with their shouts to-day at noon, as the 
stages drove from the Monastery, taking them 
to the station for their two weeks at home. It 
is hushed and quiet now, and the voices of the 
brooks are heard again, singing the melodies 
of Bethlehem. I walked to the Monastery late 
in the day, and the sunset lay on the trunks of 
the old walnuts — and I thought that the gift 
of Inspiration was pouring from their strong 
hearts in songs of praise to That Child. A robin 
sits inspecting the Yule Log, and I think how, 
in only a few hours now, it will glow like the 
robin's breast. He sings his dear, glad song. 
"Cheer up !" And timid mortals must have 
courage. God teaches men through the birds. 
The Abbot has just come over, and has brought 
a Poinsettia. Surely its colour is near of 



102 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

kin to the Cardinal-flower that fired the 
swamps when July burned in strength. Mem- 
ory whirls me back, and I stand again in the 
midst of the full splendour of Summer. How 
short the time, and how soon it will all come 
back again ! Mrs. McDonald calls me just here, 
and I go into the kitchen to find Philip Age- 
weight, Herbert Gardener and Harry Phillips 
stretched in luxurious idleness, enjoying a mince- 
pie. I allowed myself to be persuaded to join 
them, so I close this note with one of the first 
odours of Christmas. 



LXIV. 



December 22, 1899. 
I found a little piece of grass this morning, 
just below Convallaria's old cabin, that has kept 
the sweetness and the love of April all through 
the year. Cardinal Brook has been kind to it, 
and this frosty light has wrapt it in silvery mists 
that have caught visions of rainbows. I went 
as far as old Indian River, and the swift cur- 
rent of its songs hurried on to the ocean, to be 
caught up into glory, and to ride in the golden 
chariot of the clouds, and then to descend again 
with benedictions of rain unto the Earth which 
God has blessed. Spring continues, Wallie, and 
even the naked woods seem warm. The hands 
of December have quarried a golden mouth to 
add splendours unto the realm of the Great Here- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 103 

after; and the Solstice will soon lie dim in the 
distance, for every evening the tide of the sun- 
set breaks further on the coasts of Night. The 
Master and Convallaria are down to Caltha 
Swamp for a walk : I see them as I write. They 
are sitting on the old lichened fence, the birches 
with their white stems thick around them, their 
buds swollen against the sky. The laurels, too, 
show the polish of their leaves in the sunshine, 
and the hemlocks, as the breeze stirs them, shim- 
mer into emeralds. It is so beautiful down in 
that old swamp. In the study here, the fire has 
drawn round itself a purple robe of ashes and 
is at rest : the sunshine gives all the warmth we 
need, since the Gulf Stream of Mav runs throusfh 
December. Mrs. McDonald sings as she goes 
about her work. Mrs. Bruce is with her, and 
both are very happy. They are talking about 
making "a Haggis," which, I imagine, is a kind 
of Scotch plum-pudding. The Abbot is in the 
green-house, bending over the Stephanotis. It 
is still full of blossoms. I never saw a finer one. 
Jamie is a good gardener. Harry is at the din- 
ing-room table, wrapping up the books which the 
Master intends for his boys. A something in 
the very air tells that the great Festival is near; 
and here among the hills, it lifts one so much 
nearer unto the skies than in the rush and the 
turmoil and the care of the world. Year after 
year, and, at last, there will be throughout the 
world — ''One Great Vision of the Face of 
Christ." 



I04 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



LXV. 

December 24, 1899. 
It is Christmas Eve, Wallie, and the 4th 
Sunday in Advent. I was up at 5 in the hush 
of the stars, and sat by the Hbrary hearth-fire 
and read Matins, a wax candle burning softly 
in a silver candle-stick on the desk. Mass was 
at 7, and the Master and Mrs. McDonald went 
in the close carriage, for it began to rain at day- 
break. I walked, to enjoy the song of the rain- 
drops. Mr. and Mrs. Clark and their son who 
are here for the Festival went at 11. It is now 
2 p. M., and shows signs of clearing. The rain 
comes against the windows with fresh impetus 
at times, but there are rifts in the clouds, and 
I see a bit of blue. I have had a quiet day : 
reading the Old Book and the magazines and 
some studies in botany. Convallaria sits with 
me, reading her Prayer-book and watching the 
lawn, the grass of which is just as fresh as April, 
and a robin hops about there. Just think of 
that! Mrs. McDonald has just come in to see 
him and says she hopes he will hang up his 
stocking "the nicht." Ah, the clouds are driven, 
as I write : the west rolls great avalanches of sun- 
set through the hills, and the brooks roar with 
strong chords of song. There is promise of a 
glorious Christmas. I must put up my writing 
now, for Philip Ageweight and Harold Ander- 
son and Herbert Gardener and Harry Phillips 
are coming over Bluet Ridge for a call, and 
the station carriage has just brought the two 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 105 

Kimball boys who were here Thanksgiving. 
Philip is to entertain them for the week, as the 
cabin is full. They will be here every day, 
though, and so will the other boys. The six of 
them are in the dining-room with Mrs. McDon- 
ald, and the house just trembles with the surge 
of their splendid youth and health. The Mas- 
ter says be sure and hang up your stocking. 

Christmas Morning. A precious Christmas to 
you, Wallie. I wonder if you are up. It has 
just struck 5, and the sky is thick with stars — 
the surety of a glorious day. The Monastery 
bells are filling the hills with music — the first 
Mass will be at 6. Well, the Mass is over, and 
we are back again at the cabin. Last night after 
a little supper of toast and coffee and mince- 
pie, Mrs. McDonald drove that whole herd of 
boys out into the star-light, and they all went 
home with Philip to spend the night. They were 
all at Mass at 6, though, and looked as fresh as 
the morning. After the service, Mrs. McDon- 
ald clutched Stephen Monroe by the arm and 
thrust him into her surrey before he was well 
aware of it ; and then turning to Philip, she said : 
"Bring your whole tribe to the cabin, and I will 
gie ye a cup of coffee before ye gang down the 
hills." And a glad half hour it was to us all. 
They all came back and we dined at 2, all of the 
Monastery, together with Mr. and Mrs. Mon- 
roe — sixteen in all, and the table was stretched 
to its full length. We had oysters on the half 
shell, and two roast turkeys, and a dish of par- 
tridges, and a ham boiled in scuppernong wine 
and stuck full of cloves. After that, a salad of 



io6 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

lettuce and tomatoes from the green-house ; fin- 
ishing with mince-pie, and then going into the 
Hbrary for coffee and nuts. On the table were 
three vases of Jacqueminot roses and white Bou- 
vardias, and corners of the room were purple 
with violets. Our tree was lighted at 8, and every 
one present was made glad. I will leave it to the 
boys to tell you of their gifts. I kept my last Sum- 
mer promise to Herbert Gardener, and gave him 
Thoreau's Journal. The rooms are full of ce- 
dar and pine and hemlock and their delicious 
fragrances. The Monastery Chapel, too, was 
thick with them, and the Altar blossomed with 
Marechal roses, and the lights with their soft 
splendours shone in worship of the Light of 
Light, who at this time took our nature upon 
Him and was made Man. The whole day has 
been glorious with Spring, and from time to 
time the meadow-larks have filled the air with 
their songs. I went out into the swamp with 
the boys after dinner, and we found the pur- 
ple cowls of the symplocarpus started in the sun- 
shine. They live in defiance of all that the Win- 
ter can do. There is a package on the tree that 
the Master says must hang there till you come. 
I know you will be glad to meet the boys. Good 
night. 

LXVL 

December 26, 1899. 
The Spring continues and December lingers 
on its throne of gold ; looking with the year's 
dim eyes at the Star of Bethlehem : listening to 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 107 

the In Excelsis Glorias of- the Heavenly Host : 
rejoicing at the onward march of the nations up 
to the cattle-shed to find their God. The 
Days resplendent in vesture of gold, and their 
hearts throbbing with the old Christmas songs, 
are leading the year unto the realm of the Lost 
Yesterdays to yield crown and sceptre unto the 
New. The woods were all bronze and red as 
the floods of sunshine broke from the gates of 
the morning: every limb and every twig had a 
distinct personality of its own. Bluet Ridge 
shone like fields of white Azaleas as the morn- 
ing fell on the frost : the rocks blossom with 
mosses and lichens : a streak of bright grass de- 
fines the brook in Caltha Swamp : and a robin 
stands on the dizzy heights, crying to the waiting 
columbines, "It's time !" It is Saint Stephen's 
Day, as you know. All the eight boys were at Mass 
at 10, and then Stephen took them all home to 
dine at his father's. Besides the eight, Mrs. 
Anderson, Mrs. Bruce, Mrs. McDonald, Dr. and 
Mrs. Ageweight and Mrs. Gardener were there. 
Halle Seton was in the city, or he would have 
been there. A white Camellia lay at every place, 
and Philip gave a centre-piece of Jacqueminot 
roses. We had a roast of beef, a dish of par- 
tridges, and a pair of ducks. The dessert was 
cranberry-pie and ice-cream. Then we all went 
up to Stephen's rooms for nuts and coffee, and 
after some Christmas music, "the smoke stacks," 
as Harry calls them, wandered about the lovely 
lawn and enjoyed, a box of Havanas that Mr. 
Monroe had furnished for the occasion. We 
all returned to the house presently, and in the 



io8 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

presence of the ladies gave our young friend 
"The Temple Shakespeare," in crimson leather, 
40 volumes. A birthday gift, and the dear fel- 
low was entirely unprepared for it. He tried 
to speak, but an eloquent sob forbade, and we 
all cheered him. We have just returned to the 
cabin, and Harry is with me in the corner to 
watch the lights climb the hills. Stephen played 
the organ at Evensong at the Abbot's request, 
and Arthur Clark is reading the service now to 
the Master. 



LXVII. 



December 27, 1899. 
Harold and Herbert came this morning and 
asked me to go out with them for a walk. We 
went down to Philip's, and spent an hour with 
him and the Kimball boys. On our way, we 
stopped at the cave under Bluet Ridge, the ap- 
proach to which was so warm, so like com- 
ing Spring. The terraces were as green as May, 
and the Prinos berries held all the fire of Sep- 
tember in their breasts. We heard a soft, sweet 
voice, and stood in the hush and listened. It 
was the Indian mother, Convallaria, in the smoky 
door of the cave, and she sang this Christmas 
song: 

Hushed the hills. Deep the peace. 
Shepherds rest. Slumbering fleece. 
Coming in clouds, lo, the Hosts of the Lord 
Shone in pale splendours of light on the sward. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse, 109 

Singing- the Saviour's Birth. 
Comfort, O stricken Earth ! 

Voiceless Star ! Prophecy's Child ! 
Thine the tongues on the wild. 
Waking the Sages the deserts to plod, 
Leading them on to the Birth-place of God, 
Lingering in lightning rays 
Over the Infant of Days. 

Christmas Morn ! Songs we raise. 
Blazing worlds crash with praise. 
Open, ye w^indows of Heaven Above, 
Break up, ye fountains of Infinite Love, 
Pour down the second Flood, 
Cleanse with the Precious Blood, 

I took them down as she sang, and thought 
you might like to see them. Not far away, a 
lad was scratching wih a stick among the rus- 
set leaves under a knoll of butter-nut trees. 
The trunks stand so ashen against the hemlocks. 
I am sure they are as old as the century. The 
lad had been successful, and had half a bar- 
rel of nuts at least. Herbert said : "Let's go and 
chat with him, and ask him what he got in his 
stocking." We went, and the lad was three quar- 
ters better ofif when we left him. There is that 
unmistakable feeling again in the air, and that 
colour of ashes over the swamp that tells of 
snow. Not a sound, nor voice of bird on our 
walk, save that a friendly crow bade us good 
morning, and we were glad to get back to the 
cabin. We stopped a moment at Pulpit Rock 
and saw the New Jersey and New York train 
come in, and I waved a good morning to the en- 



no Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

gineer, whom I know. Harold said it was the 
courtesy of the gold pen and the steam whistle. 
The cabin is warm, and the Master tells the boys 
that they must stay for dinner, and his word is 
a command. They told Mrs. McDonald, and she 
said : "It must be a michty trial for ye to stay." 
And then she drove us out of the kitchen. 



LXVIIL 



December 28, 1899. 

I walked this morning with Arthur, and as 
we were passing through Whippoorwill Glen 
a 3^oung man came up and wished us good morn- 
ing. Then he said : "You don't remember me, 
Father?" I told him with regret that I did not 
remember him. "I am Will Thorne," he an- 
swered me. "Ybu met me Michaelmas, five 
years ago, and told me you were sorry to see a 
boy of twelve smoking. I thought it over and 
stopped it, and have not smoked since." I was 
glad, indeed ; gave him the blessing of holy 
Church, and told him The Christ would keep him 
in his young manhood's strength. A kind word 
can accomplish so much good. 

I sat before a glorious hearth-fire here in the 
study last night, Wallie, and read some of the 
quaint old stories of Christmas. One in partic- 
ular pleased me : "The Fourth Wise Man," it 
is called. The Three had waited for him at the 
place appointed, but he had been delayed, wait- 
ing on the sick. He followed, but did not over- 
take them, nor did he find That Child. Jeru- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 1 1 1 

salem, Bethlehem, Egypt, Nazareth — he searched 
in vain. He found not the New-born King. For 
thirty years he searched, and finally found Him 
on His triumphal progress to Calvary. He 
waited until the Day of Pentecost was come, 
confessed Him, and, at last, died for Him. The 
legend reads that when he reached Bethlehem, 
the Holy Family had just left for Egypt. While 
inquiring at a house, the shrieks of mothers 
were heard on the streets ; they wept their mur- 
dered children. Herod's soldiers had come. A 
mother with babe at breast, in the house where 
he inquired, appealed to him to save her child. 
The scholar went to the door, as the soldiers 
were rushing in, and taking a burning ruby from 
his breast, gave it to the Captain, saying: "There 
is no one here : disturb not my prayers and med- 
itations." The child was saved, and in the next 
generation, was that First Martyr, Saint Ste- 
phen. 

A thin lace of snow veils the hills to-day, and 
all is still. Even the brooks have hushe'd their 
songs. Convallaria is knitting moccasins, but 
Mrs. McDonald tells her she must put her w^ork 
aside until after dinner. I smell a hot mince 
pie, and that means I must stop. 



LXIX. 



December 29, 1899. 
Will Thorne, the lad of whom I told you, came 
to the cabin this morning at my request, and 
I gave him a Prayer-book. I told his story to 



112 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the Master and to Mrs. McDonald, and the good 
mother set before him a lunch of mince-pie and 
a cup of chocolate, and the Master gave him 
a five-dollar gold piece to add to his bank ac- 
count — he has saved $ioo these last two years. 
He is under an excellent man in a railroad of- 
fice, and has time for recreation and study. He 
promises to be a worthy man. 

This morning at 5, I stood at the window, and 
the moon, veiled in whiteness and wearing a 
girdle of thinnest gold, came through the gates 
of the east, and waved a farewell to the stars 
as they drifted out of sight. All was hushed, 
the calm that stamps the blue of Heaven on men's 
hearts. The woods looked so black against the 
kindling east, and the olive spires of the ce- 
dars were well defined against the approaching 
day. I went back to my fire and read Matins, 
and presently the sun mounted his throne and 
gave the benediction of another day's splendour 
of health. The green-houses just burn with 
Poinsettias and Bouvardias ; and there are some 
fine Brandywine strawberries ripe, which we 
are to have for dessert on New Year's Day. The 
envious frosts and the winds rage to despoil the 
loveliness, seeking a crevice through which to en- 
ter the Eden of beauty, but seeking in vain. Last 
night there were visions far into the sunset, and 
all the mighty highways of light were strawed 
with palms for another year's triumphal prog- 
ress. The way lay thick with star petals from 
the far-off Tree of Life, and only a few hours 
now, and the year that has done its work is 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 113 

going back to Eternity with hosannas. Mr. and 
Mrs. Clark and Arthur have gone down to dine 
with the Ageweights, and I have Harry with 
me. He is busy with ''Coriolanus/' having just, 
translated that period of Roman History. We 
are just in from a walk. There was a glow of 
life on the hills, and a low music in the woods. 
Crows on the distant fields of grain were holding 
a convention : the still pools of Caltha reflected 
the twigs and the lichens and the blue. I smelled 
the far-off coming back of Spring. 



LXX. 

January i, 1900. 
A good New Year to you, Wallie, from all 
here at the cabin. We have entered on the last 
year of the century. Last night the gates of the 
sunset were thrown wide apart, and in simple 
majesty the Old Year went to stand before the 
Judgment Seat. The clouds in vesture of gold 
attended : the hills wrapt in purple fixed their 
eyes upon the solemnity : the Evening Star filled 
all the west with its personality of light: a thrill 
of promise went through the woods, for the 
buds and the blossoms within their breasts leaped 
for joy. It was not like a pageant that would be 
seen no more forever. This morning the sun 
shines warm and soft, and all the hills are pow- 
dered with dust of pearl from the two inches 
of snow that fell with heaven's New Year's 



114 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

greeting in the night. It lies like a golden fleece 
on the hemlocks, and the white birches are whiter, 
and on the avenues the crystals lie in untouched 
beauty: the brook, the mosses, the lichens, the 
drifts of leaves are all softened into loveliness 
by the lustrous gift from the skies. The hearth- 
fire burns dreamily, and the Master sits before 
it with the new magazines. Convallaria in the 
ingle is still busy with her moccasin knitting: 
Mrs. McDonald is singing Scotch songs in the 
kitchen as she prepares a turkey for the oven. 
All the boys have been in with Philip to pay 
their deference this morning, and Herbert Gar- 
dener is coming back at i p. m. with his buggy 
to take me home with him for dinner. He gave 
Mrs. McDonald Ian Maclaren's "Kate Carnegie" 
for Christmas, and read her selections from it 
during the day he spent here, and she says he 
reads the Scotch "maist beautifu." All the hill 
folk have come to the cabin this week to thank 
the Master for loving remembrances, and we have 
enjoyed their kindly visits. One o'clock came, 
Wallie, and Herbert came with it to take me 
to dine with him, as I said : but Mrs. McDon- 
ald and the Master both insisted that he must 
stay, and ask me home with him some other 
time. We were all pleased to have it so. Our 
guests leave to-morrow, all but Arthur Clark: 
he will spend the remainder of his vacation with 
us. The Monksrest green-house is still filled 
with morning-glories, and every blossom filled 
with the sapphire of the skies, with the message 
— "Lo, here is Heaven!" 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. T15 

LXXI. 

January 2, 1900. 
This second day of the New Year is glorious 
with sunshine, Wallie, and the winds fill the 
hills with great crash of song. A dust of snow 
w^iirls in the air from time to time, glisten- 
ing in the light ; and the trunks of the trees are 
all ruddy with warmth, notwithstanding the cold. 
One peak of the hills is so bright with sunshine, 
I cannot look on it, while all the mountains be- 
low are heavy with purple shadows. It looks 
like a golden tent spread there, and I think of 
The Transfiguration. We had a quiet New 
Year's dinner ; Mr. and Mrs. Clark and their 
son, and Herbert Gardener were the guests. We 
had the strawberries, too, of which I told you — 
a full quart, and in colour like the coals of the 
hearth. After dinner, Herbert, Arthur and I 
went out into the swamp, and Arthur brought 
back a lot of Prinos berries for his mother to 
take with her. She is an enthusiastic botanist, 
and her boy is like her. He is like Harry in 
one of his characteristics — he does not talk. 
Jamie is in the city, so I went to Monksrest 
for the Master who sent a roast turkey to the 
old gardener there. The Master wanted him to 
come to the cabin and dine here, but he had 
sprained his foot and was sensitive about show- 
ing his lameness. Arthur and I sat in my fa- 
vourite corner and saw the clouds, the trees, 
the rocky avenues and the outline of the moun- 
tains fade from sight. Then came the Ian- 



ii6 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

terns, and showed the vast nothingness in- 
stinct with life. We had a simple supper at 
7: a bit of toast, smoked halibut and a glass of 
cider. The lad was out with me this morning-, 
and, uncovering a bed of russet leaves at Cleft 
Rock, we found an Hepatica bud. Just think 
of that ! Our guests left us at noon — Mr. and 
Mrs. Clark, but Arthur will spend his vacation 
here. Harry is coming to take him home for 
the night, and we will be just ourselves here 
at the cabin. I told Harry not to talk his guest 
to death, for I know how little conversation there 
will be. He smiled and showed me Irving's 
"Washington," and I know what the two will 
do. We have some yellow jessamine from 
Florida. 



Lxxn. 



January 5, 1900. 
There was a mist of splendours on the hills 
to-day, Wallie, and the morning sifted it through 
and through with dust of gold. Last night the 
far-off lighthouse glimmered long on our win- 
dows, and a search-light on the river shot a ra- 
diancy of palest silver through the mountains. 
It was in honour of the Master's birthday. All 
the boys and all his other friends sent flowers 
to him, and the cabin is smothered in carnations, 
roses, violets, Calla lilies and ferns. The mail 
brought a deskful of congratulations, and Harry 
came at noon from his office and brought a 
great packet of telegrams of the same character. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 117 

Just at dusk, Dr. and Mrs. Ageweight called, and 
brought Carlyle's ''French Revolution" in three 
volumes, and they are royal books. What a stu- 
pendous writing it is ! Well nigh an Apoca- 
lypse in its visions. Every page is hot with the 
lightning. And so epigrammatic, every sentence 
stands out in such strong relief. The judgment 
of the Bourbon Dynasty is come : the Nemesis 
of Retribution is taking vengeance at last, and 
we hear the sting and the hiss of that terrible 
scourge. 

A bed of rubies glows on the hearth this morn- 
ing, and the sunshine makes a tapestry of gold 
on the walls. Violets and jessamine blossoms 
and the first daffodils breathe their fragrances 
on the light ; the air is soft and mild — the harsh- 
ness has melted into Spring again. Jamie has 
raked up the leaves that the last wind strewed 
round, and they burn and quiver in brilliancy, 
wrapped in soft smoke on the walk below the 
south w^indows. A bonfire always has its own 
sweet smell and suggestions of the returning 
year and new life. 

II A. M. Arthur and I are just in from a 
walk. We found the gardener of Monksrest 
back of Warrior Rock examining a mighty pep- 
peridge tree that he came on by chance one 
night last Summer, when he had lost his way 
on the mountains. It is a tree worth making 
a sacrifice to know. The Monastery boys are 
all alive this morning, I find on inquiry. They 
were all over last night, and the Master drove 
the whole herd into the kitchen, where Mrs. 
McDonald endangered their lives with fruitcake 



ii8 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

and mince-pie. It is hard to kill ostriches. Con- 
vallaria is spending the day with Mrs. Monroe. 
Stephen took her over at 9. 



LXXIII. 



January 6, 1900. 
The sunrise burned the east with leagues of 
gold this morning, Wallie, and all the trees, 
every shoot and swollen bud, were etched 
against the illumined sky. It is a fitting morn- 
ing for The Epiphany, and all the glory of the 
heavens rolled through the woods and the ave- 
nues, as we returned from Mass. The Altar 
was white with a wealth of narcissus sent by 
Stephen and the other boys ; there was a very 
wilderness of candles ; and as the incense drifted 
upward, I thought it added a reality to the gifts 
of the Wise Men, as told in the Gospel for the 
Festival. I noticed many gold pieces in the 
alms-basin as it was carried up to the Altar — 
a custom of our people at this time, as you may 
know. On our way home, we heard the far-away 
train blow for Cowldeep, and I thought how 
beautiful all that stretch of road, as it curves 
round the entrance to Hemlock Valley. How it 
calms and soothes both mind and heart ! Har- 
ry came home with us for breakfast, and Ar- 
thur went to spend the day with Stephen. They 
are congenial souls, and I have no doubt that 
they will have a twenty-five-mile tramp over the 
hills before we see them again. We have had 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 119 

breakfast — it is 9 A. m. The Master sits be- 
fore the hearth, and Convallaria is in the ingle 
with her moccasin knitting. He has just read 
to her the 60th chapter of Isaiah, in which 
the pine, the box and the fir tree glorify the 
Place of His Sanctuary. There is no place so 
appropriate as the hills for reading that chap- 
ter, so heavy with the fragrances of the win- 
ter woods. A fly buzzes on the window, and a 
robin on the outside looks on with rapt atten- 
tion, thinking, probably, that it would be a dain- 
ty morsel for breakfast. The poor, silly fly 
buzzes on, heedless of the red-breast's designs ; 
and we ourselves, are, at times, not much mor<2 
wary. No sting in the air this morning, no 
feathery crystals of the frost on the branche<^ 
of the trees, no raging of the wind. A dreamy 
light on the swamp tells that there will be rain. 
The old pepperidge tree stands against the grey 
a very Cyclops in its grandeur. Jamie is on the 
lawn picking up the twigs that the late winds 
scattered, and the grass is bright and fresh, not- 
withstanding the recent cold. We hope you will 
come to-morrow ; the cosey chair awaits you. 



LXXIV. 



January 8, 1900. 

Did you stand on the hill, on the way to your 

office this morning, Wallie, to see the sunrise? 

It spread over the black, grim mountain-side, a 

soft flush of light like the arbutus bloom; and 



I20 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

then it deepened Into a russet bronze, like the 
colour of an October vintage. In its radiancy 
the barren woods and all the snow-strewn ave- 
nues were lost. 

Yesterday the Monastery bells throbbed 
through the hills at the hour of Mass, and the 
cadences of the music quivered in every glen, as 
we went along. The whole day was like March ; 
the hills were warm with the tremour of the 
heat, and a scent of Spring steamed up from, 
the russet fields. The Abbot gave a thought- 
ful sermon at ii, on the Epiphanies of The 
Christ. He emphasized the Holy Childhood 
given in the Gospel for the day — The First Sun- 
day after The Epiphany, and then showed that 
the lowly Jesus began and ended His Minis- 
try in His Father's House, the Temple at Jeru- 
salem. The Eternal Omniscience sat at the feet 
of this world's poor wisdom and asked ques- 
tions. What infinite humility! And when the 
end came, that last week of His Life, He sat 
in the Temple and spoke that terrific 23rd chap- 
ter of S. Matthew's Gospel, hot with the light- 
nings of Eternity that scorched and shrivelled 
the sordid consciences of the priests and schol- 
ars that clamoured for His blood. "Woe unto 
you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites !" The 
fearless, merciless denunciation of the wrath of 
God ! They had spent their whole lives in God's 
service, and God Himself speaks — "hypocrites !" 
Right In the very midst of the mob that would 
drag Him to Calvary ; but they lay no hand on 
Him, they never answered Him a word, they did 
not dare look Him in the face. And they crept 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. I2i 

out into the night and hissed and whispered and 
plotted ; and their God is crucified ! There is 
no Hell worse than a Religion that has prosti- 
tuted its divinity. 

In the evening after Vespers, the Abbot came 
over with a number of his boys, and enjoyed 
our Florida oranges. It was Arthur's last day, 
and the boys were having a final word with him. 
He left this morning at 9, and Stephen drove 
him to the station. They had that twenty-five- 
mile walk that I told you of, and brought back 
a store of health and strength that will last all 
Winter. 



LXXV. 



January 10, 1900. 
The sunrise gilded all the dome this morning, 
Wallie ; but now it is all frescoed with clouds 
that tell of snow. There may yet be use for 
the ''scarlet runners," though Mrs. McDonald 
says : 'T hae my doubts." It is another of those 
days of deep hush : not a breath of wind on 
the hills, not a twig stirs, not a note from all 
the bird life. I put my ear close down and heard 
the voice of Cardinal Brook beneath the ice, 
and that is all the music the hills can give to- 
day. Old January has a tender heart, and will 
not lure the erythroniums from their retreats 
until the days of frost be past. The swamp that 
glowed so long with Prinos berries looks des- 
olate now, the frost blackened them and they 
have fallen. There is comfort back of it all, 



1^2 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

though, for the lengthening days assure us that 
in six weeks more there will be hepaticas in the 
sunny nooks on the south side. Yesterday I found 
a dandelion in blossom close to the green-house 
doors, and April will not give a finer one. The 
hush of the day is broken now, a soft, sweet 
rain is falling. The drops hang in silvery shin- 
ings from the trees, and its music strikes the 
window panes. I know it must spread radiance 
on the hemlocks of the valley that you love so 
well. Convallaria is in her ingle, and the Mas- 
ter is reading by the south windows. He holds 
a volume of Longfellow open at that celebrated 
poem — ''Haunted Houses." I have read it my- 
self scores of times, and always with the same 
interest. Only that calm, beautiful, spiritual life 
could have written it. I never sit alone without 
realizing that all the departed loved ones are 
near, just as the mystery and the joy of the poem 
pourtray. Such a poem as that gains in reality 
from such an environment as this. Jamie has 
just brought in the mail, and Mrs. McDonald is 
reading a letter from our dear Arthur. The Mas- 
ter has a box of bronze cypripediums from Mrs. 
Clark, the lad's mother, that came by express. 
I wish you could see the sweet look on the old 
scholar's face. Stephen has come in and hands 
me an open letter from the student that be- 
gins : ''Fellow Buck." They will become staunch 
friends. A kettle drowses into song on the 
crane, and the air of the cabin is sleepy. We 
must go out. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 123 



LXXVI. 

January ii, 1900. 
The noon of yesterday mounted the heavens, 
WalHe, and dipped its pen into the fires of day, 
and wrote its record on the earth in gold. (How 
great the change from Avhat its morning prom- 
ised ! And this morning, too, heaven spared not 
the gold : the whole vision before mine eyes is 
filled with it, every twig and branch and lich- 
ened bough burns with it in the frosty light. 
I watched the electric stars burn out that keep 
sentinel, night after night, at the base of the 
mountains, where the orchestra of the owls 
tune their quivering voices, and the light was 
hardly gone ere the whole grim stretch of hills 
was irradiated with the colour of peach blossoms 
that deepened into the rich velvety fire of June 
roses. I stood at Pulpit Rock, and heard the 
whistle of the train at Cowldeep — that treasured 
isolation. The world's traffic rushes through, 
but the repose, the calm is not broken. The flow- 
ers come and go, and only the real worship- 
pers of the woods know it — the great throng of 
passers by speeds on with no thought of its 
loss ! Would that they could know that here 
is rest and solace and health for worn brain and 
heart ! But for so many it comes not until the 
remorseless Fate cuts the thread of life and all 
is done. The library Is full of sunshine, and 
we are taking a bath In dust of gold. The Mas- 
ter sits with a little volume of Longfellow's 
Poems in his hand, and the very title shows 



124 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

that the writer was a poet — ''In the Harbour." 
How beautiful ! The long voyage of four-score 
years is finished, and home is reached — that 
Home. The poems written at 80 are not like 
those written at 40: sunset cannot be like noon- 
tide, nor Winter like Summer — the strength and 
the majesty are gone, but, oh, the infinite love- 
liness and beauty ! Convallaria has just been 
telling Mrs. McDonald how she kept January 
II, 1800. It was her mother's birthday, and 
there was a quilting party in that same little 
cabin by Cardinal Brook. How long ago it 
seems ! And yet the brook has not grown a day 
older in all that time ! I do not wonder that 
The Scriptures tell of "the waters of Life." 
The map of the hills that you sent delights the 
Master^ and he sits with it in his hand just 
now, having put 'Tn the Harbour" among the 
books again. He wishes that you would paint 
the red oaks for him, that foliage of fire. 



LXXVIL 



January 12, 1900. 
The hills are all shut in to-day, Wallie. The 
mists were so heavy at 5 this morning that I 
could not see the lights go down the mountains. 
The rain, though, seems tired out and about to 
cease : the clouds are worn unto the thinnest 
gossamer. I never use the word gossamer, with- 
out thinking of its supposed derivation — God's 
Mother, and, how the dewy webs of lace that lie 
on the fields of summer are threads of the grave- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 125 

clothes that fell from S. Mary as she rose and 
drifted upward into the light. There are flashes 
from time to time, as though the light would 
break through. The v/alks all through the hills are 
coated with ice, and we have not as yet ventured 
out of doors. The hearth-fire is ruddy on the 
walls, and lightens our faces with the sunshine 
of the million ages gone : the Past is brought 
back, and gives the present hour gladness and 
warmth and the splendours of day. I hope your 
valley interests you this morning: the rain is 
coining silver pieces that flash from the apple- 
trees and the oaks with prophecy of tassels and 
blossoms, and I know that they must warm your 
old friends the hemlocks into many fragrances. 
Mrs. McDonald took down the Christmas ever- 
greens last night, and it makes us seem a bit 
nearer Spring. The songs that broke over Beth- 
lehem, the Star that poured its splendours over 
the Manger Throne, the Wise Men traversing 
the desert to find The Eternal Omniscience, the 
Epiphany with its inundations of light — these 
yield to the pre-Lenten twilight. Calvary shows 
afar through the shadows : the great Niagara 
crash of song dies into silence, and we hear the 
nailings and the hammerings of the men who 
are getting ready the Cross for their God ! 

A crow peers out from our old hemlock, and 
looks very weather wise. He seems to say that 
the day will fill the hills with shinings before 
the Angelus ring in the noon. The Abbot and 
Mrs. Bruce were over last night, and as it was 
very icy, Jamie got out "the scarlet runners" and 
took them home, so that he could say he had 



126 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

used the sleigh once during the Winter. The 
bells sounded very sweet through the hills, and 
on his return, he drove the Master and Mrs. 
McDonald out to call on the Monroes. Con- 
vallaria has a bluet in blossom among the ferns. 



LXXVIIL 



January 13, 1900. 
The bloom of roses lightens all the hills again 
this morning, Wallie ; the ruddy light flushes 
every tree and twig and lichened rock and field 
of grass that waits for Spring. There is at 
this season a beauty in the light that the later 
year does not know ; it is like that "clear as 
crystal" told of in The Revelation. A soft steam 
lies on Cardinal Brook, and the moss is ten- 
der in its childhood, and the grass that fringes 
the margin of the stream has the restful green 
that has never known the burden and the heat of 
the year. It seems to me that we all turn to the 
Spring — its freshness, buds, blossoms, vigour and 
loveliness — because its teaching is that we, too, 
shall come again unto the Spring-time of our 
wasted lives. We want the old spring in our 
step, the old strength; we want to get rid of the 
rheumatisms and the failing sight and the mil- 
lion wrinkles ; we want to shift the weight of 
years. Ah, me ! the grave is the only friend that 
can lift the burden from our weary shoulders. 
As we journey onward and down unto the 
Solstice of the 70th Winter where Atropos waits 
with the gluttonous shears, we ask if we shall 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 127 

turn again unto the light : and a voice speaks 
to us from the fragrant prophecies of Spring- 
time, saying that the bosom of the Earth shall 
nevermore be scarred by another grave. The 
healing of the Light of Light shall work upon 
us the miracle of youth and health and strength 
and the glory of a manhood that shall never 
waste. There is but one season in Heaven, and 
it is Spring. In every wind-swayed petal and 
stamei) of the blood-root God's voice speaks, say- 
ing: "There is no death in the realm of that 
vast To-morrow." 

I was up early to have a talk with the stars, 
and to watch the lanterns go down the hills. 
They were like winged daffodils. At dawn I 
walked to Pulpit Rock to see the valley still heavy 
with the purple night, while all the hills were 
quivering with the strong tides of the spring- 
ing da}'. Puffs of steam went up from mills 
and factories, whistles startled the world's chil- 
dren from sleep to work, labour entered upon 
the course of its exhaustless energies : and the 
hills, light-kindled, grand, unchanging, calm in 
majesty, sent down Benedictions to bless the 
sons of God in their toil till the night comes 
again with the stars. 



LXXIX. 



January 15, 1900. 
The day lies in its swaddling clothes, Wal- 
lie, and the hills all drenched with light are 
paying the Epiphany of their worship. The 



128 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

snow-clouds have strewn their blossoms every- 
where — fences, trees, the woods, the brook, the 
distant hills are all luminous with whiteness and 
wrapt in silence. There are rabbit tracks all 
through it — I trust the hunters will not find 
them. Old January wears the ermine of his 
reign: but a beauty like the April shad-bloom 
fills his throne, and the fragrances of Spring are 
in the air. Yesterday was a quiet day. We 
went to the early Mass, and spent the rest of the 
day in quietness, while the snowflakes, like great 
clusters of anemones drifted round us as noise- 
lessly as ghosts. Gregory Livingstone came in 
after the late service, and brought the Mas- 
ter a bunch of sumach and lindera from his fa- 
vourite haunt — the Hemlock Valley. He dined 
with us, and then spent a couple of hours with 
Gray's Botany, studying the hickories and the 
oaks. A deep-red oak leaf, a lovely wine colour 
in the sunlight, lies on my desk this morning — 
and I rest my pen to hear its history : How i^ 
broke from its wintry bud at the first songs 
of the bluebird; how the grand tree hung with 
fringe of blossoms, and the bees gathered gold- 
dust and sweetness as they drowsed their mel- 
lifluent music; how it looked down from the 
parent bough upon acres of Calthas and blood- 
roots and bluets ; how it was perfected in strength 
by Summer suns and dews and rains : How the 
Autumn came and scattered rainbows over the 
forests: and, how, at last, at the bidding of a 
voice — 'Tear not," it kissed the tree goodby 
and fell to the earth, resplendent even in its 
death. And what of ourselves? Well, there 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 129 

are hundreds of distorted sermons hidden away 
in the dust of Hbraries, and, thank God, they 
will never again see the light — these sermons 
teach that we are to be damned, all but the 
few ; but that stupendous, glorious, eagle-vi- 
sioned John who had lived a hundred years in 
Christ, he puts down the pen that wrote The 
Revelation, but he has told mankind that jjiuI- 
titudes that cannot be numbered are there in 
Heaven ! And what does Heaven mean, but 
that all men are perfected in God through Jesus 
Christ? 



LXXX. 



January 17, 1900. 

March is still visiting with January, Wallie, 
and the lad's ruddy vigourous youth gladdens 
the old man's heart with Spring. The stars 
have drifted out of sight, night has gone into 
the shadows beyond the hemlocks, the frost is 
softening into the quivering radiancy of the 
dew, the purple mist on the hills is transfused 
with the light of daffodils — it is day. The sun- 
shine, returning from the Solstice, writes on the 
illumined woods that the reign of Winter is 
nearly finished. Wheels and whistles and roar 
and crash of work, clouds of steam, the thun- 
der of trains on the highways of steel, the pil- 
lars of smoke, the voices of men — all these tell 
the world's unrest ; but here on the hills God's 
voice speaks, saying: "The mountains shall 
bring peace." Who has not gone to work this 



130 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

morning more satisfied for having seen a blade 
of grass? What forgetftilness of the world's 
cares and worries in seeing some friendly crow 
in the thick evergreens? The beauty and the 
loveliness of Nature have so much power to lift 
men up to higher heights of life, where ^'the 
mountains shall bring peace." 

10 A. M. Harry and I are just in from a walk. 
He came at 9, and will stay for dinner. We 
went and took a look at the old Indian River 
where he will catch a dinner or more of suck- 
ers in the Spring. At Cleft Rock, we found 
a maiden-hair spleenwort, and on Bluet Ridge 
a woodsia fern, as fresh as in the Spring or 
nearly so. The leaves on all the silent avenues 
were moist and soft and rich in colour — purple 
and violet and lavender and ashes of rose and 
wine-coloured russets. It will do me good all 
day. The Master is out for a walk, and Con- 
vallaria with him. Mrs. McDonald is dust- 
ing in the library. Jamie is opening the violet 
frames, and Mully looks on : she would like 
to smell them. There is a wistful expression in 
her eyes, and I know she could solve the root 
question of many a problem in botany. Out to-, 
ward the south, Cardinal Brook flashes in the 
sunshine and trails a cord of sapphire down the 
glen, as it sings to the blossoming mosses and 
lichens. It would rest you to hear and see. Mrs. 
Bruce is coming over Bluet Ridge at this mo- 
ment, bringing a box of snow-drops that blos- 
somed m her windows. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 131 



LXXXI. 

January 18, 1900. 
I was down in Caltha Swamp at 5 this morn- 
ing, Wallie, and saw the stars in their silvery 
barges drift out of sight. The moon lay white 
upon the hills, and presently the sunrise burned 
the library windows with orange fire. I took a 
stick and wrote on a frosty rail, as I sat wrapped 
in my cloak, and a crow looked down to see what 
I had written. It was just here that I found 
a violet in the moss last November, two days 
before Thanksgiving, and he thought, prob- 
ably, that I was looking for another. I am much 
in love with the crow. His presence takes the 
sting out of the Winter, and speaks continually 
of promise. There is such a beautiful touch 
of every day life in the dear Christ's reference 
to him in The Sermon on the Mount. Close 
at the water's edge a last year's leaf rested, still 
soft and lovely in its ashes of rose, and on its with- 
ered bosom a fresh bright blade of grass that will 
avenge its death and wrest the whole realm of 
Nature from the frost. We have Summer days 
all the year through, and this month we have 
had many of them. The wild fever and delirium 
of Winter subsides at times and Nature returns 
unto consciousness and the Summer mind. Mrs. 
May went through the swamp as I sat there, 
and the dear old lady and I had a pleasant morn- 
ing word. She told me that her husband has 
not been well of late. I have great respect for 
the old man and soldier, for, though he was 



132 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

out the whole four years of the Civil War, he 
will not ask a pension for his old age. "I can 
get on, and not ask help of my country,'' he 
says. It is an aristocratic pride and a splendid 
patriotism. Living among the hills has endowed 
him with greatness of mind and heart. A sound 
of footsteps here broke my meditations, and the 
Abbot came upon my sight, taking a breakfast 
walk. A dozen of the boys were with him, and 
all the flush of the east in their faces. They 
vv^alked with me to the cabin to pay their defer- 
ence to the Master. As I sit at my desk the 
thunder of the world's work breaks against the 
hillss but they heed it not. Stability where all 
is change : calm where all is turmoil : Majestic 
in the midst of all time's fret and littleness. And 
I heard a voice from Heaven, saying: "Come 
up hither, and and I will show thee the things 
which must be Hereafter." 



Lxxxn. 



January 19, 1900. 
I went home with Stephen for an hour yes- 
terday evening, Wallie, and a tame goose came 
to meet us. I talked with her a moment, and 
she took occasion to remonstrate that man- 
kind has always seen fit to regard her as de- 
ficient in intellect. She quoted the proverb : "As 
silly as a goose." Then she asked : "Did not 
Sir Walter Scott write the Waverley Novels with 
a goose-quHl : and is not the whole world of 
scholars agreed that the books in question show 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 133 

the richest gifts of mind?" I told her fair goose- 
ship that it would be righted in the Golden Age, 
and she went her way satisfied. The hills are 
hidden by mists this morning as warm as the 
last of March, and all the snow is gone. Jan- 
uary has lost his ermine ; but young March is 
with him still, and the wholesome lad's breath 
is sweet with coming flowers. The fire burns 
dreamily and has no need to keep vigil against 
the frost — he is gone. When last I saw him, 
his vesture was radiant with crystals, and he 
stood at the green-house windows, imploring a 
tender erythronium to open unto him : but the 
innocent blossom swayed him a negative, for the 
Passion vine had taught it to beware. Just here 
Mrs. McDonald called us to breakfast. The 
table was lighted with candles that burned softly 
in those massive silver candle-sticks among vio- 
lets and ferns. The old clock ticked the solemni- 
ties that are wasting time away, and the grate 
glowed with the fire of ages when man was not. 
The coffee filled the cabin with its luxurious aro- 
ma, and, as we sipped it, the Master read to us 
from the Life of Millais, which the Abbot sent 
to him, and it has given us much pleasure these 
two grey days. What a wholesome vigour 
guided his brush ! How his strong health and 
manhood showed in his colours ! How true to 
Nature every landscape and face and history! 
The moors widened his artistic horizon, and his 
genius was never betrayed Into a weak Idealism. 
The mist clings to the hills, but it seems as if 
the heavy sunlight must break through by noon. 
The train has just blown a salutation to the pur- 



134 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

pie Spathyema at Cowldeep, and a clock in the 
valley tells the hour. I am writing on a cor- 
ner of the kitchen table, and talking to Mrs. 
McDonald and Stephen. She has just served 
him a glass of cider and brought out a mince- 
pie. I must join him after finishing my note. 
We hope you will come S. Agnes' Day, Sunday. 



LXXXIII. 



January 20, 1900. 
It is S. Agnes' Eve, Wallie, and, true to his 
word, Stephen Monroe came to the cabin at 10 
this morning, with their close carriage, and we 
all went to his father's for the day, as they 
had arranged. I am writing this in Mrs. Mon- 
roe's dining-room, and a festal hearth-fire roars 
gloriously, filling the room and our hearts with 
its glow. Philip Ageweight, Harold Ander- 
son, Herbert Gardener and Harry Phillips are 
here, and I have just read to Mrs. Monroe and 
them Keats' "S. Agnes' Eve." I read from a 
sumptuous volume that Philip gave me Christ- 
mas, and then I handed him the book, and he 
read, with deep feeling, that master-piece — "Ode 
to a Nightingale." The Kimball boys wanted 
to come, but could not leave school ; they sent, to 
represent them, 10 pounds of delicious choco- 
lates, and we will do them justice — the boys 
and the chocolates, too. Harry calls the other 
boys "The Big Four." They will not be home 
again until Easter. Philip will graduate in 
Medicine in June, Herbert in Civil Engineering, 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 135 

and Harold is studying for a Priest, as you know. 
The rain pours down steadily, and from the win- 
dows nothing can be seen but the old well- 
sweep on the lawn, for the white mists shut us 
in. Our drive through the hills was interesting, 
despite the storm. Cardinal Brook had strong 
music in its voice, and all the trees stood like 
columns of black marble. It rained hard all 
the way, but Mrs. IMcDonald called it "a mist," 
true to her Scotch bringing-up. The party from 
the Monastery has just come — 12 o'clock. The 
stage is at the door, and the boys are in high 
glee — some ten or fifteen, and the Abbot and 
Father Max with them. Harry and "The Big 
Four" have gone out to welcome them. It will 
be a pleasure to Philip to have Halle. Just 
hear the noise in the kitchen, as they take 
off their coats ! The Abbot and Father Max, 
bless them, are deaf. And the dear lads ! they 
w^ill get the utmost pleasure out of the festival. 
Dinner was at 2, and twenty-nine were seated at 
the table. Mrs. Monroe has five young- ladies 
with her, so we had loveliness as well as strength 
at the feast. We had two roast turkeys, and a 
roast of beef; and the richest golden-brown 
pumpkin-pie ; and a salad of lettuce and toma- 
toes, of course : and some cider with just that 
delightful twang, something like the sting of 
a first frost. We had Florida oranges and Bald- 
win apples that had looked on many a sunset. 
There was a centre-piece of white lilacs and Cat- 
tleya orchids that hurried us three months into 
the future and thrilled us with the finest in- 
spirations of Spring. We all wished for you, 



136 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

but you will be at Ageweight to-morrow and that 
will make us all glad. Convallaria sits in the win- 
dows embowered by burning nasturtiums, and 
is knitting moccasins for ''The Big Four." Har- 
ry has his already. It is not S. Agnes weather, 
by any means. The owl can't quote Keats to- 
day, but there will be many a day before the 
white lilacs blossom at Monksrest when he 
will be "a cold." We all left at 5, and stopped 
at the Monastery for Evensong, and I am hur- 
rying this note so that you can find it on your 
desk at 7, when you go into your little library 
for a talk with your books. You will be free 
from the world's work and dust and noise for 
another week, and will find the rest that keeps 
life young and strong. 



LXXXIV. 



January 22, 1900. 
I walked in the frosty light this morning, 
Wallie, in the garden and on the lawn, and heard 
the voices of crows far away. The distance soft- 
ened their voices so that it was soothing to hear : 
and, oh, it was such an assurance of Spring! 
How they ignore the Winter! Yesterday, the 
Third Epiphany and S. Agnes' Day — the hills 
were filled with light. The sky was cloudless, 
and the far-off vistas clear as cystal. The woods 
crashed with the harmonies of the wind, and 
Cardinal Brook poured a stream of melted gold 
down the glen. We were glad that you came 
and took breakfast with us, and wish you could 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 137 

have stayed all day. We all went back to the 
second Mass, and in the evening, the young 
folk from Forest Glen Farm came over and 
remained with us until sunset — the pleasure of 
the gathering on Saturday being in our hearts 
and on our lips. The yoimg ladies said they 
would like to stay all the time, and the Ab- 
bot said he thouoht the Master would have to 
build a "Wo-monastery." Stephen and the other 
boys voted it a fine idea, and Halle Seton said 
he would be glad to furnish the brick. One 
of the young ladies tapped his sunny head, say- 
ing: "The first brick." Mrs. McDonald smiled, 
and, recalling some Scottish reminiscences, said : 
*Tt micht na be much of a head, but it would 
a sair loss to him." But Halle forgave her 

This morning every thing is filled with the 
inspirations of the east, and up the slopes of 
grain the hemlocks and the naked oaks and the 
chestnuts are interlaced, with sharp contrasts 
of light and shade, green and grey, foliage and 
barren boughs, the vigour of life and the leafless 
sleep of the forests that wait for Spring. The 
Master was up at 5, talking with the stars. He 
says that it keeps the calm and health of Heaven 
with him all day. The train whistled at Cowl- 
deep as usual, and the engineer waved a sig- 
nal up the mountains to the Master, invoking 
a blessing on himself and on all others engaged 
to-day in the world's work. Philip has just 
driven up, bringing Halle, and they are going 
to take breakfast with us. "The Dr." does not 
have to go to his work till 10. Oh, such a flock 
of bluebirds just now, scattering heaven all 
round. 



138 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



LXXXV. 

January 28, 1900. 

I was up at 5 this morning, and after a walk 
in the rich dusk came back to the cabin, to my 
old corner where I watched the lights go down 
the hills, the wandering daffodils. Then I read 
Wordsworth, and that sonnet in particular on 
The Virgin. That one line above all others: 
'Turer than foam on central ocean tossed," 
Harold Anderson says that the Abbot made him 
learn that sonnet when he was fourteen, and 
he has had a reverence for women that he could 
never have had without it. 

I am alone in the library, and it is the hour 
of sunrise. The hills alone know that it is day, 
the valley has not yet felt the thrill. The moon 
drifts, the palest silver, on the seas of light; the 
night is gone unto the shadows, and only the 
dreamy stillness of the Earth tells where the 
hush reigned. The Master wrapped in his cloak 
is reading Matins in the dining-room window, a 
favourite seat of his when the sunlight flashes 
on the glen with its soft mosses and lichens 
and Cardinal Brook's music. All the paths of 
the mountains are white with frost, and it lies 
on the boughs of all the trees that look so thick 
with sap, as they stand outlined against the pearl 
and gold of heaven. The sun just at this mo- 
ment is cutting its way through a block of black 
marble, and shows its full orb of fire. Day after 
day its heat increases, and all the frozen wastes 
around us will soon be a warm haze of bluet 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 139 

stars. The sparrows are thick and noisy in 
an apple-tree on the lawn, and there is but a 
short while before the tree will be a pink cloud 
of blossoms. Up the valley come puffs of smoke, 
the ringing of bells, the blowing of whistles, 
and the sound of the many hammers of the 
men who have just gone to work. On my desk 
a bowl of nasturtiums burns like a sunny orb, 
and two spathyema — "hermits of the bogs," 
wrapped in their purple cowls tell that the Spring 
is near. The strength of the Winter is worn 
unto the thinnest shreds — if it can be called 
Winter when its sceptre has been twined with 
flowers. Mrs. McDonald glides quietly in and 
out of the dining-room, and the fragrance of 
the golden coffee tells me it is time to put up 
the gold pen. 

LXXXVL 

January 24, 1900. 
Stephen came to the cabin yesterday evening 
to introduce his cousin Will Delaroche, who 
is with him for a week. A young man his own 
age, an artist who is said to have done some 
excellent work. He has come out of the city 
to get an inspiration from the hills. While they 
were in the study, Mrs. McDonald came in from 
a walk, and gave us a delicious tomato salad 
from some fine tomatoes given her by the gar- 
dener at Monksrest. Mrs. Bruce was with her 
After an hour the young men asked me to go 
out with them, and we also went to Monksrest. 
We stopped a while at Cleft Rock to enjoy the 



140 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

sunshine on the russet hillsides to the south, 
so rich in the moist air, and so bright by contrast 
with the black trunks of the walnuts and the 
oaks, and so soothing to the eyes and the nerves 
and the whole inner life. Nature has put upon 
the walls of that whole vast gallery such in- 
delible and enduring frescoes of rich bronze red. 
The young man gazed upon the whole deep calm 
a long time, and then said : "I never before 
felt the meaning of the Peace of God which 
passeth all understanding." The gardener re- 
ceived us with great cordiality, and gave the 
artist a. box of carnations and violets. From 
Monksrest we went to the cave under Bluet 
Ridge, and as we passed through the avenue 
of ''The Ghosts of the Leaves," before I knew 
it, Stephen had lighted the thick beds of sweet 
fern to give us a breath of woodland incense. 
The smoke softened the air with its rich fra- 
grance, and we came back steeped in it. 

This morning a man was at the cabin who 
said that he found Whippoorwill Glen thick 
with bluebirds. It thrilled us. The east is like 
a bed of opals as I write ; and deepening into 
crimson the morning drifts over the hills burn- 
ing them all again with the splendours of God. 
Cardinal Brook all adown the ravine is lighted 
with golden torches, and the sumachs burn like 
a great spiritual hearth-fire. Stephen and Will 
Delaroche have just come in to pay their defer- 
ence to the Master, and want me to go with them 
again to see the sunshine burn all that great 
stretch of russet oaks, and to get that health- 
giving scent of the woods. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 141 



LXXXVII. 

January 25, 1900. 

It is the Festival of S. Paul, Wallie, and lighted 
by the stars we went to Mass at 5. The light 
burned in solemnity of worship before the Pres- 
ence of the Altar, and we knelt in the silence 
for ten minutes before the service began. The 
Altar was white with Callas and Narcissus blos- 
soms, the gift of WiU Delaroche. The Ab- 
bot gave a five-minute talk on the "thorn in 
S. Paul's flesh," and said it probably was his 
remorse over S. Stephen's death for which he 
w^as in great measure responsible. 

We are shut in by heavy white mists this morn- 
ing; but they are luminous with the hidden day 
which is about to break through and burn the 
world again with its Midas touch of gold. How 
hushed it is ! There seems no world at all, 
but these few acres bounded by a rude-screen 
of swelling boughs and buds that separates Na- 
ture's sanctuary from the intrusion of every- 
thing profane. The whistle from the train in 
the valley at Cowldeep came labouring heavily 
through the air a short while ago, and the pearls 
that blossom from the eaves speak prophecies 
of rain. I trust, though, that the day will break 
through with healing in its beams. Convallaria 
sits talking with the Master, and knits mocca- 
sins as she talks. Stephen took her out for 
a drive yesterday evening, and the dear old 
mother found a jewel weed that had just broken 
the ground in the swamp on the south side. Ste- 



142 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

phen and his cousin Will Delaroche have just 
come in, and are to stay for dinner. They have 
been down to call on Philip, and found him 
and Halle Seton playing chess. They put up 
the chess, and, ordering the carriage, the four 
of them went for a drive. After the drive, the 
young artist walked through the Hemlock Val- 
ley with Stephen, and sat on the bank near the 
lindens, the bank all red with partridge berries, 
and listened to the music of old Indian River — 
the seolian airs that soothe and bless. A com- 
pany of sunbeams all in gold passed through, 
iDUt the royal twilight warned them not to dis- 
turb the hush that has reigned there for cen- 
turies, and never felt the world's intrusion. We 
have a pair of ducks for dinner. 



Lxxxvni. 



January 26, 1900. 
The morning is cold and the wind is strong 
among the hills, Wallie. There is no warmth 
and comfort except before the hearth. The fire 
seems to know that it has work to do^ and the 
flames leap with vigour. The logs glow and 
snap, and the heat quivers in the air, taking out 
the sting of the frost. The hills have lost all 
the soft, dreamy light of the last week, and are 
so stern and grim and black. Harry was here 
last night, and I walked with him to the descent 
of the mountains at 6, after a fine breakfast of 
buckwheat-cakes. The wind was so metallic 
among the russet oaks : none of the weird, soft 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 143 

music that we have stood so many times to hear, 
preferring it to all the concerts and the operas 
in the world. I would not go to the city to hear 
*'The Messiah" as long as the hills give Him 
a grander worship. The clouds look chilled 
with snow, and there is no sunshine ; it is well 
that we have such a wealth of Summer within 
doors. Mrs. McDonald came just here and in- 
vited the ]\Iaster and myself into the kitchen for 
a lunch — a glass of milk and a plate of toast 
with herself and Mrs. Monroe who walked over 
for a morning chat. A thrill of Summer went 
through us as we entered : the kettle sang its 
untroubled song; the dogs lay stretched in a 
very luxury of sleep; and the ducks occupied 
a warm corner of the porch, jabbering their con- 
tentment. There are so many wholesome les- 
sons taught us by the beasts and the birds. I 
would we were so satisfied, and could overcome 
our restless longings : that we could with our 
whole heart, turn to The Old Book's command — 
"Murmur not :" that with ready obedience we 
could turn to Him whom Anna of Jerusalem 
called the world's "Consolation." Stephen has 
just come, and we are going out to the green- 
houses of ]\Ionksrest to look into the depths of 
Heaven which the morning-glories reveal, and 
to get some lichens from the rocks where you fell 
asleep one day last Summer, as I read to you, 
the soothings of my voice, of course. Just hear 
the wind ! There is such vigour in it ; such ex- 
hilaration : strong tides of sap will stir the old 
woods into life to-day. Ah, here comes the sun ! 
We must be off, I'll send you a box of car- 
nations. 



144 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



LXXXIX. 

January 27, 1900. 
I saw the sun break from the bed of purple 
hills, Wallie, and all the clouds in golden char- 
iots waited to hail his triumphal way. The first 
light on our own hills here at Ageweight was a 
flush of peach blossoms, and the clouds that 
drifted lovingly in the softening sky were as 
if inspired by Arbutus bloom. Even the plane 
trees that were so ghastly against the stormy 
hills of yesterday are radiant with light as warm 
as Spring. The wind is hushed into calm : the 
woods are at rest : the vigils of the hemlocks 
are not disturbed ; the sparrows flit in the sun- 
shine, rejoicing; the bluebirds have come out 
of their hiding places of yesterday, and their 
soft notes tell that they have forgiven Nature 
for the storm-travail and the pain. The plants 
in the windows are all translucent, and have 
a brilliancy like the grass that fringes the brooks 
of April. I wish you could have some of their 
freshness there in the dust of your work. The 
Master is in the windows reading the Matins 
for S. Chrysostom's Day, and an illuminated mis- 
sal lies open by his side. I am more disposed 
to dwell on that old Greek Father's courage than 
his eloquence. He was not afraid to face that 
debauched Court of Constantinople with God's 
uncompromising— ^'Thou shalt not," like S. John 
Baptist. The Ten Commandments were not 
empty words with that old Chrysostom. And 
with his name I always associate Savonarola's. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 145 

They were very much aHke — the same fiery elo- 
quence, the same martyr piety and hoHness. They 
had a harder lot, too, than S. Paul : he fought 
with beasts, but they with demons who had lost 
the power to do righteousness, but not the power 
to be hurt by denunciations as deadly as the stroke 
of the lightning. They wanted God's prophets 
to speak unto them ''Smooth things" to ''proph- 
esy deceits." The prophets would not, and they 
suffered. Convallaria sits with folded hands, like 
Anna of Jerusalem, while the Master reads the 
lessons to her. We heard the train in the Hem- 
lock Valley, and clouds of steam on silver wings 
enwrapt it, and then sped up the mountain 
heights and vanished out of sight. Gone, I 
suppose, to meet the coming rains, Mrs. Mc- 
Donald is bringing in the coffee, and I must 
put aside my pen with this word of blessing. 



XC. 

January 29, 1900. 
I was up at 5, Wallie, and read Matins while 
the star wastes were still purple with the mys- 
tery of night and the silence that sinks deep into 
the heart with peace. Then I watched the lan- 
terns go down the hills — the quiet music of their 
drifting through the deep rich gloom and the 
hush. They must enjoy the cloisters of the si- 
lence. Everything is white with snow this morn- 
ing. It lies on the trees, long stretches of rib- 
bon on the naked boughs, and the hemlocks are 
bending with it. The woods look like the time 



146 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

of blossoming dogwoods. Cardinal Brook is 
feathery with frost crystals, and the water is 
soft and smoky and black as night. The crows 
caw from afar, and an occasional bluebird soft- 
ens the harsh air with a song. Harry came 
last night and stayed with us till 10 p. m. He 
and Stephen and Will Delaroche took supper 
with us and Stephen took him home with them 
for the night. He had to go down to the 
express this morning, so he drove the lad down 
in time for his office work. He has just come 
in, and says that he left the lad caressing a 
Greek Reader. He is a born student. Stephen 
brought us the mail, and Mrs. McDonald says 
he must stay and try "to worry down" a grid- 
dle of buckwheats. He did not have much "wor- 
rying," for the cakes were fine — as you know, 
and so was the peach syrup made from fruit 
that ripened at dear Monksrest. Afterward he 
took the Master out for a drive in the clear, 
crisp, life-giving air. Mrs. McDonald is talk- 
ing to the ducks, and they are jabbering back 
with full-throated eloquence. The tame white 
one that likes you so much, says she would send 
you a letter if she could prevail on some goose 
of her acquaintance to furnish her with a quill 
for a pen. One of the dogs came just now and 
pressed his warm nostrils against the window 
with so much affection in his great, soft eyes. 
Jamie called him to a breakfast of bones, and 
he went with earnestness. So easily satisfied ! 
I would we always were ourselves. Stephen is 
busy with "Brown Heath and Blue Bells," one 
of William Winter's books, sketches of Scot- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 147 

land. He writes with such beautiful charity. 
I think that 13th chapter of First Corinthians has 
become a part of his very heart-throbs. Will 
Delaroche has just come, and we are going to 
the Monastery. 



XCI. 

January 30, 1900. 

A light like June roses burns all the east, 
Wallie : the fire of another day quivers through 
all the horizon. The woods are all feathery with 
frost crystals, and the hemlocks stand black 
amidst the leafless boughs on which the first 
sunbeams lie in streaks of gold. How still it 
is : and what exhilaration there is in the stinging 
air ! I sit looking out where the Calthas will 
soon illumine the swamps. Convallaria sits in 
the Ingle, and Halle Seton is reading to her 
about the martyred Saint and King, Charles I., 
it being the day of his execution. His should 
have been the cloister, not the throne. His foes 
say that he w^as not true to principle, and yet 
he died rather than renounce the old Government 
of the Church of God. It Is said again that he 
had no regard for his w^ord : I think rather that 
he was fickle and inconstant — not a willful dis- 
regard of truth. ]\Iy sympathies have been with 
him ever since I was old enough to know. 

The Master is out on Bluet Ridge, commun- 
ing with the spirits of centuries of blossoms, 
and Mrs. McDonald is in the porch, feeding the 
jabbering ducks. The tame white one of which 



148 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

I told you yesterday has the gift of a quill from 
her friend the goose, and I imagine she will 
write you now, some new theory of in-duck-tion. 
The morning, though so cold, is glorious, and 
works on me its miracle of health — the tide of 
life dashes with new vigour through vein and 
artery. The sun breaks into the study, touch- 
ing my pen with its light, and hanging on the 
wall back of me, a golden curtain embroidered 
with buds and boughs and shimmering light, and 
the smoke clouds of far-off trains. 

10 A. M. Am just in from a walk. I left 
soon after breakfast, and Halle walked with me 
as far as the school. I went down into the 
valley and rested a while under the warm ledges 
of rock, with the hills in their rugged, sombre 
strength all around. The persistent oak leaves 
seemed as thick as in Summer-time. My nerves 
were saturated with that draught of colour: soft 
pink and violet and russet and pomegranate-red, 
and the soft texture of the Cardinal-flower were 
all blended in the gorgeous pageant. I would 
I might send you a bit of the unchanging calm 
of the hills to hallow your work and to exalt 
you unto a fuller revelation of God. Here, ver- 
ily, is the gate of Heaven. 



XCII. 

January 31, 1900. 
Stephen brought us some fine tomatoes from 
his green-house, last night, Wallie, and we had 
a salad for dinner. He took Mrs. McDonald 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 149 

and Convallaria out for a slelgh-ride, and they 
came back looking- as fresh as Spring flowers. 
His cousin Will Delaroche was with him, and 
they dined with us. It was the artist's last 
night. He left this morning at 7, and is to spend 
six months in California. He brought the Mas- 
ter a sketch of the bronze-red oak leaves, and 
told him he will do it for him this coming Spring 
in oil. We all hope he will come back again, 
for we took him right to our hearts. The air 
is heavy to-day, and full of arrows that wound 
and sting-. February, in the robes of her cor- 
onation and heralded by snowflakes is ready to 
take the throne which the old King gives up at 
midnight. The sun is gone into the wintry 
clouds, and there is no splendour from heaven 
to-day. Nature is weary beneath the drear wastes 
of snow : but it comforts us to know that there 
are but twenty-eight sunsets more between the 
ice barriers and a living world of shad-bloom and 
Hepaticas. Put your ear close to the frozen 
woods, and you can feel the throbbing of the 
Caltha stars that flush the waters of the swamp 
with gold. The dogs are playing on the lawn, 
and the ducks are jabbering about their un- 
dignified conduct. Jamie has just come in with 
the mail. We have a delightful letter from Ar- 
thur Clark, and Mrs. McDonald, one from a 
friend who is spending the Winter in Scotland. 
It was dated at Melrose. Convallaria is in her 
ingle, looking over some purple yarn : she is 
going to make the artist a pair of moccasins. 
How much she adds to the comfort of all with 
whom she meets ! The Master is looking over 



150 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

a work on tHe Orchids of New England, and 
has just shown me a lovely plate of the Calypso, 
an orchid that I have never seen. I think I will 
have to go and spend a Spring in the bogs of 
Maine, and look the dear primeval world in the 
face. He sends you a blessing and the calm 
of the hills to lure you from the dust of work 
to Ageweight. I am going now to read Words- 
worth's "Excursion" to the Abbot for an hour. 



XCIII. 



February i, 1900. 
Last night, Wallie, "The owl for all his feath- 
ers was acold." We are having real S. Agnes 
weather at last, the very kind that Keats told of 
in his celebrated poem. This morning, there 
is a glorious sky without a cloud, and the red 
east thrills me with thoughts of Spring. Yes- 
terday, though, the weather used the eaves and 
forged icicle daggers for the warfare against 
the days that will bring the Equinox. As I 
write, the gates of the Orient are thrown wide 
apart, and the Day comes with his attendant 
train — ten of whom are resplendent with warm 
gold, and fourteen clad in the deep purple roy- 
alty of night. The way of his progress is strewn 
with light, and the wind is blowing the trum- 
pet of its loud hosannas. I wish you could see 
the hills at this moment: a soft texture of sun- 
rise veils them, as if all the roses of all time were 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 151 

burned unto ashes and spread over them. There 
is so much beauty and splendour that one for- 
gets the mercury is at zero. If we have such 
a day to-morrow, the bear will come out and see 
his shadow, and then crawl back again into his 
den, and then for six weeks longer the Spring 
must wait. Last Sunday's papers had an ar- 
ticle on the quaint and pretty stories connected 
with this time, and we all enjoyed them as much 
as if we had heard them for the first time in 
our lives. Harry has just come in, and his 
glow and dash and enthusiasm are a tonic to us. 
His coat was just radiant with frost crystals, and 
Mrs. McDonald tells him he ought to be ashamed 
to wear so many jewels. He will stay to break- 
fast, of course. The mountains last night were 
filled with sleighs and music, and Stephen came 
and took us over to his father's for an hour. We 
enjoyed some fine Indian River oranges, and Mrs. 
Monroe had a half dozen plants of the sacred 
lily of the Aztecs blossoming in a bowl of water. 
She got the bulbs some six weeks ago, and to- 
day they are a mass of rich velvety crimson 
flowers, and heavy with fragrance. She gave 
me a stalk, and I am going to send for some 
by the next mail. I smell the odour of buck- 
wheat fields in bloom, and that means the grid- 
dle cakes are ready. I must put aside my pen. 
We will be busy to-day getting ready for Can- 
dle-Mass. Mr. and Mrs. Monroe are to dine 
with us on the Festival. 



152 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



XCIV. 

February 2, 1900. 
It is the Festival of The Purification, Wal- 
lie, the sweetest and closest to the heart of all 
the Christian Year. It is a few minutes before 
the sun, and the library is aglow with candles, 
and the distant windows of the Monastery are 
lighted with their gold, and the Chapel was a 
wilderness of tapers at the 5 a. m. Mass, and all 
the chorister stars went in festal procession 
through all the deep purple aisles of the sanc- 
tuaries of Heaven to the honour and praise of 
That Child. The sun comes at this minute, with 
all the torches of its beams ablaze to the Glory of 
The Light of Light. The Master has just read the 
second chapter of S. Luke, and it brings back 
all that old time within the grasp of the Present. 
Stephen Monroe came home with us from Mass, 
and is to spend the day with Chapman's Botany, 
the scholar whom you and I knew personally. 
The sun is up over the trees now, and its brushes 
of gold have painted the library walls with daf- 
fodils, and the sumachs on the mantel burn like 
torches of rubies in the light. Stephen sits at 
the organ singing in glorious tenor, and the 
Master, with folded hands, sits listening, the 
Glory of the Vast Beyond lighting his dear face. 
He, too, waits. He will send by messenger a 
box of daffodils and snow-drops to your study, 
and they will greet you when you get home from 
work to-night. He told Stephen of a child whom 
he has sorrowed for a century, and then showed 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 153 

him a poem that he wrote concerning- his sor- 
row in the dim past. Stephen brought a copy 
of it, and sang it to : ''Art Thou Weary, Art 
Thou Languid?" It was hke a divine revela- 
tion to the Master. These are the words, but, 
oh ! that you could have experienced the mystery 
of feeling that came over us as the boy sang: 

Just an hour of Life's sweet morning, 

Fragrance, gold and song: 

This was all our Darling's portion. 

Ours the wrong. 

In his birth, the Summer Solstice 
Had been past. The Year 
Turned again toward the Winter, 

Told his bier. 

Years will pass and tears will strengthen, 

But That Day shall be. 

Home, That Home shall end the sorrow 

No more Sea ! 

Glad then drift we to the Solstice — 
Winter, Death, the Graves ; 
Atropos but shears the anguish 

That enslaves. 

That Wide Restfulness of Glory 
Healing tears will stain : 
Tears that arch the storm with splendours, 

No more pain I 



154 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Let us live that we may meet him 

After Life's brief span; 

Worthy then to stand before Thee, 

Son of Man. 

Mr. and Mrs. Monroe will join Stephen this 
evening and dine with us, and there will be sev- 
eral other guests. It will not be like the Christ- 
mas gathering, though. The Master has just 
told us the legend of S. Simeon. I will send 
it to you : It had been revealed unto him that 
he would not die until the Coming of the Christ, 
and he had waited 200 years. The snows deepen, 
the pulse wastes unto zero, the plow-share of 
age furrows its million wrinkles — still he waits. 
He looks at every babe in its mother's arms, but 
finds not That Child. At last ! Mary brings 
her Babe to present It before the Lord, and 
old Simicon holds It unto his breast. His arms 
enfold Eternity : the Babe is the Eternal God ! 
It is nothing to all that throng The Temple. 
Only an humble Mother with her first-born : 
they have seen it a hundred times. But the 
eyes of Mary's Babe and the eyes of Simeon 
meet — O Man, it is thy God! And the wearied 
saint gives the world its Nunc Dimittis. 



XCV. 

February 5, 1900. 
It was a wild nicht here on the hills, Wallie, 
and the morning, too, is wild. It is the last of 
the. Winter, though, and we know that the time is 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 155 

short. I have always had a tender place in my 
heart for February : it was the month of purifica- 
tion under the Roman Empire, the Christian 
Church keeps the exquisite festival of The Purifi- 
cation of S. Mary in this month, and the name 
itself — February — means cleansiiig. It is the 
hardest, severest of the year, to be sure ; but the 
fringes of its garments brush the violets oif 
March, and its snows are turned to blossoms by 
the shad-trees on the hills. I stood at 5.30 to 
see the lights go down the mountain. Lower 
and lower they sank into the blackness, and I 
thought of Dante's descent into Inferno. Last 
night we read John Lord's lecture on Dante, and 
it is the clearest, best thing I ever read on the 
Poet whose fame made Italy world-wide. I wish I 
could put it in the hands of every careful reader. 
It is long past sunrise now ; but the sky is lost 
in clouds, the day is drenched with rain, the 
fields are sodden, the woods are scourged by the 
winds, the hills are deluge-broken. In the west, 
though, the light is breaking, and I know from 
the flash of old Convallaria's eyes that she longs 
to get out and hear the glad songs and rejoicings 
of the wild torrents. Cardinal Brook is just be- 
side itself with joy, singing the old song. The 
stepping-stones that seemed so high when Harry 
and I were there last November are almost under 
water now ; if the dear stream add to the volume 
of its strength, we will not be able to cross at 
night-fall. We all went over to the Monastery 
for supper last night, and it made the day seem 
bright being with all those young lives. After 
Mrs. Bruce's famous wafBes I read to the lads 



156 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

a story of thrilling experience in the Arctic cold, 
and they all sat spell-bound, as I myself when I 
first read it. Stephen has just come in with a 
box of those dear old-fashioned flowers, the 
hollyhocks, from their green-houses. The Master 
just hugged them to his breast, and then the boy, 
he was so glad. Mrs. McDonald tells him he will 
not get out alive until after dinner. Your daf- 
fodils still gladden our hearts, and are the only 
sunshine we have to-day. Their freshness less- 
ens the weight of years. 



XCVI. 



February 8, 1900. 
I was prowling around our old Caltha Swamp 
again yesterday, Wallie, and found the remains 
of an old fireplace belonging to an house that 
stood there some 150 years ago. It is well nigh 
in ruins now. I told the Master, and he gave 
me its history, telling of a certain Anderson, its 
builder. He was in the first Stuart Rebellion, 
1715, and fled from Scotland to save his life. He 
found refuge here in this new land among the 
hills, and lived in calm and peace, undisturbed, 
and never molested of the Indians who then 
roamed the mountains. The cabin in which he, 
his wife and his three sons lived was called 
*'Scotboards," and was known for hospitality 
and deeds of Christian love far and wide. The 
folk of the country-side always found welcome 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 157 

in the sweet home, and the Indians were taught 
the Christ's Gospel and were baptized. I found 
there the record of the baptism of a babe, 
*'Ogeechee," and Convallaria tells me that this 
Ogeechee — Wild Balm — belonged to her own 
tribe. I see in vision, and that beautiful, calm 
life all comes back again — the crane and the 
steaming kettle, the glow of the hearth-fire, the 
old well sweep, the old garden with its sun- 
flowers and hollyhocks ; and this life went on 
until 1775, when the master of the house and 
his wife were called to keep their Golden Wed- 
ding in the Golden Jerusalem on High. The 
sons had remained near their home for a time, 
and then had gone into the English army, and 
their lives swelled the army of martyrs whose 
heroism made this land what it is to-day. I 
find that the Monroes are descended from a 
daughter of one of these sons, and years ago an 
old Indian dying here on the mountains told the 
Master that he was baptized in this old house, 
whose occupants now for long time have been 
one family again in the Home above. 

Some days ago Harry and a friend went 
among the hills with a camera, and to-day Harry 
has brought us pictures of old Indian River and 
Cleft Rock and the Monastery. They are per- 
fect, and we have given them a place in the 
study. The lad stopped at Monksrest, and the 
gardener sent us a box of carnations and 
hyacinths. 



158 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



XCVII. 

February 9, 1900. 
One winter's night a wanderer on the hills 
was arrested by a light shining from the chinks 
of a cabin. It was cold and a wild storm raged, 
and the snow fell with death in its voice. The 
wanderer hailed the light as his last hope — he 
was tired out. It was February, 1660, and the 
man was one who had sympathized with Eng- 
land's Regicides. I tell you the legends as they 
were told to me. He went to the window of the 
cabin and looked in, finding warmth and shelter. 
Then he knocked at the fast-closed door. The 
inmate of the cabin, an old Monk at his prayers, 
heard and answered, saying, "It may be He who 
said : 'Behold, I stand at the door and knock.' " 
The wanderer remained with the old priest there 
at Monksrest for twenty years, and, when he 
died, laid him to rest under the oak trees which 
he loved, while he himself lived on there still for 
nearly half a century. His door opened with 
wide charity for all, and here the weary, heavy- 
laden found the dear Christ's rest. One night 
a band of Indians cut and gashed his door with 
their tomahawks, clamoring for his life; but the 
old saint did not resist them. Standing in the 
white vesture of a Priest, he opened to them 
with a martyr's heroism. What did they do? 
They fell away in awe, and never an Indian 
troubled him more. There came a company 
of soldiers one day to slay him, because he had 
consented to the death of his King, but when 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 159 

they looked on him that Old Voice spoke to 
their hearts: "Why persecutest thou me?" They 
fell at his feet and asked his blessing, and 
turned and left the old Saint to his prayers and 
charities and vigils. Aquilegia was with him 
when he died. The mother of the chieftain who 
had sought his life fifty years before, and she 
and her people stood by his grave under the 
oaks singing the "Dies Irae." 

It is noon now and Harry has come to stay 
until to-morrow morning. He will revel in the 
books. Ever since his last visit a paper-cutter 
has marked Mary Stuart's escape from Loch- 
leven, as told in "The Abbot," one of an aristo- 
cratic set of Scott given to the Master by the boys 
of the school. I must stop. I smell the fried 
oysters, and that means that lunch is ready. The 
Master sends his blessing. 



XCVHL 



February 10, 1900. 
The whistles have just blown that set the sons 
of toil to work ; through the valley the miracle 
of steam has left a train of clouds flushed with 
the coming sunrise, and I am at my desk in 
the cabin, proposing to tell you a story of Monks- 
rest in that old time of two centuries ago. The 
regicide sat in his door one August day, and all 
the valley quivered with purple heat. The shad- 
ows were soft on the grass all round his door ; 
the hollyhocks spread the many colours of their 
beauty, and bees drowsed over a sunflower hedge 



i6o Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

of gold. The tramp of many feet was heard, 
and a band of Indians appeared. They came 
into his cabin, lay their tomahawks on the table, 
saying: "We give them all up to the Chieftain 
Christ; make no more war; follow the Book 
you have read ; live Christians." So much this 
one life had influenced the savage children of the 
forest to turn to the King of Calvary, and they 
kept their word. Cabins of sweet home life 
took the place of wigwams ; their wives were 
elevated to Christian womanhood ; the peace of 
God reigned on the hills. As long as the old 
Saint lived the red men, with wives and babes, 
thronged his simple abode and became more and 
more like unto Christ. See, here is a young 
warrior bringing in a venison, or an Indian 
mother a pot of wild honey, or a child a bunch 
of moccasin orchids. The Gospel is a living 
power here ; this is the gate of Heaven, and 
here willing hearts and hands brought the stones 
for His house, and the church that we call "The 
Monastery" was built. Thus the years went on 
and the Scripture was fulfilled which saith, "1 
will draw all unto Myself." 

Harry stayed all night, and I walked with him 
this morning to Brow-wait, as he went to his 
office. Philip was home for a day and came 
and dined with us last night. After dinner he 
told us of an interesting article which he read 
lately on consciousness. The theory of the 
writer seems to be that there is a two-fold con- 
sciousness. That of our waking hours is the 
lower, and is the reflex of that other and higher 
consciousness of which we have intimations dur- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. i6i 

ing sleep and in the delirium of fever. What 
we know as iinconsciousiicss is a passing into a 
higher estate of consciousness, in which there 
is no dependence on corporeal conditions. It is 
something to ponder. 



XCIX. 



February 12, 1900. 

I wish you could have seen the gold dust of 
light, Wallie, as the heralds of the day sprinkled 
it over the hills this morning, and all the woods 
blossomed with it like May. The crows filled 
the far-off trees with their — Yes, I shall call it 
music, for their voices had no harshness in 
them. I stood a while in the glory and listened 
to the raven prophecies of the coming Spring, 
and then went to my desk to take up the old 
work. 

I talked yesterday evening with Stephen's great- 
grandmother, who is with them now, a woman 
more than 90. I sat in their library window 
among the nasturtiums, and the old lady told 
me of the sweet life in the Anderson cabin, and 
one Easter Eve in particular, the 14th of April, 
I pictured the scene as she talked. Mr. Ander- 
son was at the plow turning the fresh sods for 
corn, and burning brush scented the air, and 
the crows followed fearlessly in the furrows, and 
the ancestry of the present shad-trees scattered 
round their fragile blossom-fringe of snow. In 
the house his good wife spun the snowy linen 
to the music of her wheel — the same old wheel 



i62 Mountain Walks of a Recluse, 

that the Monroes have in their garret now,, and 
as I looked at the work of her hands — for Mrs. 
Monroe has a bit of the hnen — I thought that 
its maker must be more enduring than her work ; 
that woman still must live. In her garden that 
Easter Eve the shadows stretched long lines 
of purple sleep, and the daffodils made sun- 
shine, the blackbirds and the bluebirds rejoiced 
together, and the mother's heart went out to her 
boys who had just come in loaded with caltha 
blossoms for the Altar on the morrow. They 
are all one unbroken family again — there, and 
the gold of "The Better Country" is still re- 
flected in the blossoms that little hands still 
gather here on the earth below at Easter-tide for 
the altar throne of God and Christ. 

It is noon now. I have been out into Century 
Swamp with Laurence Kent, the Rhode Islander 
who moved here a year ago. We went to see the 
tupelo tree that towers so gloriously above all 
other trees, and holds a superlative supremacy 
of grandeur. The air was warm and moist, and 
a three-mile stretch of oaks in their fire bronze 
held us under their influence for an hour. 



C. 



February 13, 1900. 
One day the Regicide Priest was wandering 
among the hills, and found a fisherman with a 
basket of speckled trout by his side. The brook 
dashed on, singing its Easter carols ; foam and 
spangles of sunshine drifted and flashed on the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. i6 



o 



water, and erythronium blossoms bordered the 
marge with their yellow stars ; the trees were 
soft with the first brilliancy of foliage in the 
dreamy light, and the robins were busy with their 
house-building. The world was fresh and clean 
and washed of every stain, and men, too, were 
glad with the thrill of immortal youth. Our old 
friend went and joined himself to the fisherman, 
and took him to his cabin at ^lonksrest. There, 
after a broiled trout and a cup of wine from his 
own vintage on the hills, he read to him the 
miraculous draught of fishes that first Easter- 
tide, as told by S. John. The fisherman listened, 
glad to find in the Bible things that appealed to 
the ruling motives of his life. He came back 
years afterward, one night when all the hills 
were thick with voices of the fallen leaves, and 
said : "I have watched your light shine on the 
blackness, and never without remembering how 
you read to me of the Star that guided men to 
The Christ, and I have come to tell you that I, 
too, am Christ's." And the next Spring, when 
the brook sang its Easter songs, the old Regicide 
Priest dipped the crystal waters of Baptism and 
signed his fisherman friend with the Holy Sign, 
while the wild-flowers shed their fragrances on 
the hallowed scene. Ever after the new disciple 
kept a light in his own cabin to guide wanderers 
to a night's lodging and to Christ. And when 
at last it failed, and the cabin was dark and bleak 
and chill, the man himself was gone to lay his 
strength of manhood at the feet of the Light of 
Light in the Father's House above. ''And there 
is no night There." 



1 64 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

I was out a little while ago — it is ii a. m. 
now — and met a young man among the bronze- 
red oaks near Century or Hundred Acres Swamp. 
We talked together for a short time, and I found 
that he was hurrying to the maelstrom of the 
city. 'He was tired of the country and wanted 
"life." I wonder what the bluets think of him ! 



CI. 

February 14, 1900. 
It was a cold S. Valentine's on the hills; the 
wind shrieked ; the snow was drifted to the win- 
dows of the Anderson cabin there in Caltha 
Swamp in that long ago, and the family sat in 
comfort before their hearth-fire, glad that they 
were not out in the storm, and with the prayer 
that no one else might be. There came a loud 
knocking at the door, and above the rage of the 
storm was heard the voice of an Indian woman 
with babe at breast. She went out and was 
overtaken by the snow, and could not find her 
way home. The Andersons took her in — for 
they themselves knew what it was to be wan- 
derers from home — and kept her until Spring, 
for her young husband warrior was dead. The 
woman saw the living power of the Gospel, and 
she and her child were given to The Christ in 
Baptism. And not only that — she heard of a 
conspiracy to kill the family of her benefactors 
and bum their house ; but when the hostile 
Indians came in the midnight for their work of 
destruction, she, all in white, rose up suddenly 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 165 

before them in the porch, and they, awed by the 
sight, sped away into the forest, having seen a 
messenger from the Great Spirit. Then she went 
to them : 'T stopped you ; it was no spirit. 
Those people are the kindest friends red men 
could have. Go to them. Tell them what you 
have done, and be forgiven." They went, and 
there were no more savage deeds on the hills. 
Convallaria told me this as we sat yesterday in 
the sunset in the ruins of the Anderson cabin, 
and she pointed out to me the gashes of toma- 
hawks on the door, made before the gentleness 
of the Gospel filled the red men's hearts. 

I asked Laurence Kent what impression New 
York City had made on him in a recent visit. 
He answered me that he stood in Forty-second 
street where, he had been told, 100,000 persons 
pass every day; and he wondered how long it 
was since an Indian moccasin flower had blos- 
somed there. How the trees and the blossoms 
will love him ! The green-house Is still ablaze 
with poinsettias, and a white lilac fills the study — • 
cut yesterday in honour of the Abbot and some 
friends who dined there. Cardinal Brook is all 
gold this morning and full of Spring songs. 



cn. 

February 15, 1900. 
You may have noted, Wallie, on Convallaria's 
breast that bit of embroidery of arrows and a 
bunch of rattles in purple and gold. Well, to- 



1 66 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

day we walked to Caltha, and she told me that 
one of her ancestors, an Indian chieftain, sat in 
conversation with Mrs. Anderson when one of 
her lads came into the cabin with a rattle-snake 
coiled round his wrist. He had caught the reptile, 
not knowing its deadly power. The Indian, see- 
ing the mother's fear, as quick as the lightning 
strung his bow and shot off the reptile's head. 
'Tt is a weapon of death, but it has saved my 
boy's life," cried the grateful mother, and it 
made her his staunch friend for life, while her 
boy followed him and became a marksman re- 
nowned through all the hills, neither snake nor 
wild animal having power to do him hurt. He 
could pick up any snake, and it had no sting ; and 
the ferocious wolf whimpered at his feet. 

The morning, after the example of the mother 
of Achilles, has dipped the day in gold, and 
it will be vulnerable only in the sunset. The 
woods are kindled with light, as if blossoming 
with all the glory of all the orchards that have 
given fragrances to the Springtime since the 
Earth was fitted for man's abiding-place and 
home. I walked to Pulpit Rock this morning tO' 
see the train pass Hemlock Valley, for Harry 
was on the train with Stephen, going to the city 
to spend the day among the bookstores. They 
v/aved to me as the train was passing the old 
yellow house. As I turned to go back I found 
the Rhode Islander on the grey rock, drenched 
in the glory. We walked together to catch a 
glimpse of our old Pepperidge as it towered in 
its grandeur, and then I took him home to break- 
fast. The Master lent him "The Trees of North- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 167 

Eastern America," Newhall. And there was that 
about the young man, as if the Day of Pentecost 
had filled him. How short the time now ere the 
anemones and the erythronia will irradiate the 
woods and the Winter-weary souls of men with 
their loveliness ! And here a meadow-lark sings, 
while the crows are noisy in all the woods. I wish 
you could escape the noise, the dust, the din, the 
rush of work, and sit here a while and rest, and 
drink in health and new strength from the hills 
of God. The sun-beams on the roof to-day will 
bring you the old Scholar's Blessing. 



cm. 

February 16, 1900. 

Two men came to the Master this morning, 
Wallie, to have a quarrel settled. The spokes- 
man said : "This man called me a jackass, and 
I wouldn't stand it, so I kicked him." 

"And isn't kicking one of the characteristics 
of the jackass?" said the Master. The man 
scowled, and then his face softened ; then he 
smiled, and the smile strenghtened into the heart- 
iest laugh. It put both of the men in good hu- 
mour : and then the Master, taking them both 
into the kitchen, asked Mrs. McDonald to give 
them a cup of coffee. And the way it turned 
out, they seemed not sorry to have quarreled. 
Yesterday the south wind flowed through the air 
in delicious waves, as soft as rose-leaves and as 
sweet as the songs of a linnet: but to-day the 



1 68 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

blasts from the north have driven It all away, 
and I sit close to the hearth — it is Winter. The 
woods are strewn with ashen grey; and on the 
bleak avenues the ghosts of last Summer's flow- 
ers sobbed on their withered stalks. I found 
Harry out on the mountain for a basket of hick- 
ory chips, and I prevailed on him to come home 
with me for an hour. A robin came and talked 
with us as we sat in the study, and told us that 
all the robins of the South are on their way 
North again with the fires of Spring burning 
on their breasts. I saw visions of Arbutus on 
the mountain-sides, and daffodils here on the 
lawn, and strawberries lighting the June gardens 
with January coals. I told the lad he must go 
with me some April day for the Arbutus : he has 
never seen it. Here the robin flew down on 
Convallaria's shoulder, and nestled against her 
cheek. The old mother talked with him of other 
Summers, and I believe the sagacious bird knew. 
Mrs. McDonald said: *'Well, I never saw sic 
a thing as that!" And I think Convallaria did 
not understand her very well, for she answered 
her, *'Oh, no, Scotland," she always calls her 
^'Scotland," ''the bird is not sick at all." She 
understands birds, you see, better than Scotch. 
Stephen came along, and the Master made him 
put up his buggy and stay for dinner, and after 
dinner he drove Harry home. As I write, the 
beautiful white ducks make a long line on their 
way to Caltha Swamp, and the dogs are mak- 
ing a bed of russet leaves on the porch. The 
wind, though, gives them no peace. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 169 



CIV. 

February 17, 1900. 

Mr. and Mrs. Livinsfstone were at Evensonsf 
last night, and the boy, of course, was with them. 
When Father Max came into the Chancel, the 
little fellow recognized him, and, remembering 
the nursery rhymes that his uncle had been teach- 
ing him, he cried out with delight : "The old 
cow jumped over the Moon." For a moment 
we felt anything but the proper spirit of devo- 
tion, and even the Priest's face rippled into a 
smile. After service he told the sweet lad that 
the Bishop will be after him for innovations. 

There is a promise this morning that Feb- 
ruary shall have jewels for her vesture, and the 
promise is made by the music of snowflakes 
that wander aimlessly over the hills and the 
forests. Ah, me ! When one reaches the sec- 
ond arch of the century the snow is dreaded : it 
brings no thrill to the blood : the fire, the dash, 
the tireless enthusiasm of youth are gone. There 
are but eleven days more, though, and then the 
trumpet voice of March will swell the woods 
with — ^the Winter is past! Even now the heat 
quivers on the hillsides, or did yesterday; and 
the New Year is conscious of its strength. Har- 
ry tells me that he has heard a wood-pecker tap- 
ping in the woods, and he tried to take down 
the message that the feathered operator was 
sending, but could not. How that same stretch 
of woods was thick with robins last All Saints, 
their breasts and the leaves and the berries of 



170 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the dogwoods glowing with the same fire ! The 
contrast makes the desolate hush of to-day cut 
deeper. As I write, a robin is making a dainty 
meal in the library window: shaking out a world 
of saucy petulant notes from his red breast as 
he feasts. He is scolding not us, but himself — 
Convallaria says, because he did not come before. 
I wonder, indeed, that he came so soon from 
the Jessamine Swamps and the acres of sunny 
lands steeped in the fragrances of violets. Con- 
vallaria had a letter from Herbert who said 
that he had seen a robin in that old grave-yard ; 
and she believes he appeared first among the 
Dead, because the most stupendous miracle will 
be accomplished there in a Springtime that shall 
come, the last of Earth and the first of Heaven. 
The Abbot with a number of his boys has just 
called, on their way to the Monroes for a walk. 
And not the walk alone : I know the lads are 
thinking of nut-cake and golden pippins. So 
anxious to be men and to plunge into the mael- 
strom of Life's cares and responsibilities ! But 
they can't get the lost youth back ! Just hear 
that robin! 



CV. 

February 19, 1900. 
The morning burns the hills again, Wallie : 
the world is full of whiteness and sunshine and 
the music of the wind, the streams and the brooks 
are all sealed, and the frost sits guard — it is 
Winter. The withered ghosts of last Summer's 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 171 

flowers look as if there were no hope : but a 
meadow-lark fills the frosty air with the music 
of his grand courage. For all the snow and 
the frost and the howlings of the wind, there 
are but ten days more ere March sit upon his 
throne of dafifodil gold. I appreciated Mrs. 
Bruce's sentiment as she stood w^ith Mrs. Mc- 
Donald in the kitchen yesterday evening, *'God 
forgive the bear for lying." Stephen has been 
with us since Saturday noon. We all went to 
Mass yesterday in the large sleigh, and our hearts 
were warmed by the sweet Gospel of the sower 
that is so fragrant with Spring — the Gospel for 
Sexagesima. A bluebird flitted before us, the 
light of Heaven on his wings and the scent of 
Southern woods on his song. On the way back 
we met Harry, and I took him with me to the 
south side of the old mountains. It was warm 
and Spring-like there — 20 degrees warmer, I am 
sure. We sat on the rocks under that old pine, 
and talked of the genial October days two years 
ago when we went all through the glen for frost 
grapes. I see it all to-day, all the red and the 
yellow of the woods : the air sown thick with 
the songs of the robins and the bluebirds : the 
witch hazel fringing the year's pall ; and the 
dogwoods burning like the hearth-fires of hos- 
pitable kitchens. The last time the lad break- 
fasted here, I gave him some of that same grape 
jelly for his griddle-cakes. After dinner, Ste- 
phen filled the cabin and our hearts with his 
glorious tenor voice, and then the three of us 
went out to Caltha Swamp and poked in the 
ashes of the old Anderson hearth — the sumachs 



172 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

near by glowing with the memories of tHe fires 
that burned there so long ago. How desolate ! 
The old crane, the centuries of dust, the moul- 
dering beams, the crumbling oven, the moss- 
grown well-sweep ! But the family is one in 
the Great Hereafter, and death can put them 
asunder no more forever. The boys of the 
school were over last night, and the Master drove 
the whole herd into the kitchen, and good Mrs. 
McDonald had not even a cruller left when the 
lads went their way. 



CVI. 

February 20, 1900. 
There is no discouragement among the birds, 
Wallie. I heard a crow just now, and his caw 
had all the old gladness. So, too, a meadow- 
lark — his song has softened the harshness of 
the air, and there are whisperings of Spring 
again. The sun fills the cabin, and the hearth 
glows, and the violets breathe out their fra- 
grance. I look over the waiting hills, and where 
the snow now lies so white and crisp and cold, 
soon the words of Scripture will again prove 
their truth — "The time of the singing of birds 
is come." The sumachs are loaded with snow, 
but their panicles of berries redden the swamps 
with a glow that makes them seem warm. What 
enduring colours ! The sun, the rain, the frosts, 
the stinging snows can't subdue their fire and 
brilliancy. How steadfast through all the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 173 

changes of the year ! And how much Human- 
ity can learn from the lessons of Nature ! Man 
is so fickle : never constant to an ideal : the shouts 
"of "Hosanna" end in "Crucify" ; professed 
friends are as changeable as the purple and the 
gold in the banks of sunset clouds. I think just 
here how Pompey was the idol of Rome : the 
populace drunk with hero-worship, shouting 
themselves hoarse over triumphal arches — ^but 
after the Battle of Pharsalia, the defeated war- 
rior and statesman had no one in all the world, 
in all that mighty Empire, to yield him an asy- 
lum from his foes. It is well that The Old Book 
turns us to the Cross-Bearer — "the same, yes- 
terday, to-day and forever." 

3 p. M. We have just finished dinner, and 
I am in my corner, watching the dripping eaves — 
the drops of water as they fall and flash in the 
sunshine look like Hepaticas, and my thoughts 
go out to the warm woods of March. Dr. and 
Mrs. Ageweight dined with us, and we had a 
fruit pudding, on which Mrs. McDonald prides 
herself, and justly. The Dr. is smoking in the 
study and talking with the Master : Mrs. Age- 
weight is reading a letter to Mrs. McDonald in 
the kitchen — Philip's, of course. He sent the 
Master a box of the loveliest carnations. I am 
going now to Monksrest with Harry to see the 
daffodils; the lad has just come and will spend 
the night here. How w^e will satiate our eyes 
with the golden blossoms ! They are like the star 
that now fills the whole western sky with the 
personality of its light, 



174 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



CVII. 

February 21, 1900. 

Harry took breakfast at 6, and I walked out 
to Brow-wait with him while the sky was thick 
with stars. He got down to his office in time 
to begin his work at 7. He will come back again 
to-morrow to dine with us, and keep the holi- 
day, and spend the night. I am just back to 
the cabin from my walk with him, and Mrs. 
McDonald and I are going to have a griddle 
of buckwheat cakes and a cup of coffee. The 
train has just whistled for Cowldeep and the 
Hemlock Valley, and the sound, drifting up the 
mountain-side, disturbs a crow in our own splin- 
tered hemlock. There is so much gladness in 
his voice ; I know he is thinking of many a deli- 
cious Spring breakfast in the swamp below us 
where the snow has melted and left a soft, rest- 
ful green. The dear bird, how he rewards us 
with his confidence ! No fear of hurt nor treach- 
ery here in the bounds of Ageweight, and know- 
ing it, he never moved from the path as I went 
by; I stooped and petted him. Would that there 
were such trust as this among men ! And yet 
that Day must be, for that is what the old Seer 
of Patmos had in mind when he wrote of the 
New Earth wherein dwelleth righteousness. 

There came an Indian to the Anderson cabin 
in that old time, and when the Master of the 
house seemed not to know^ him, he said : "You 
taught me twenty-five years ago from that Old 
Book," pointing to The Bible, ''about the White 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 175 

Man's Chief — The Christ — and in all that time 
I have tried to live His Life; for, when the end 
come, I must look my dead son in the face — ^the 
little lad of whom I told you, killed by an ar- 
row when he was five summers old — and when 
I meet him, I don't want him to be ashamed 
of his old father." I thought it such an exquis- 
ite trust in what The Gospel teaches us. The 
Master told this story to Harry last night, and 
I thought you would like to know it. The Ab- 
bot is on Bluet Ridge, as I write, coming over 
for a morning word, and the dogs have gone 
to meet him. It is better, you see, for the dogs 
to go to him, than for him "to go to the dogs." 
Convallaria has finished your moccasins. 



cvni. 

February 22, 1900. 
The snow is gone, Wallie, gone to inspire and 
swell the bosoms of the mountain streams with 
song, and we are glad. The rain is falling quiet- 
ly here on the hills, with music in its voice, and 
all the trees are blossoming with pearls of light. 
Herbert is home for Washington's Birthday, and 
brought Motley's "Dutch Republic" for the Mas- 
ter. What a strong dramatist Motley is ! The 
very scorch of the lightning is in some of his 
word-picturing. We all will enjoy the books; 
and you, too, will rest in them, forgetting the 
world — its cares, anxieties and toil. I walked 
with Stephen yesterday along Cardinal Brook, 



176 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

and saw the red squirrels busy among the trees ; 
heard and saw, besides, the bkiebirds in the wil- 
lows that showed in the strong sunshine a per- 
ceptible flush of gold, for Spring has touched 
their frozen hearts. We went far beyond the 
bounds of the hills, and came upon an old 
church that was being pulled down. We stopped ; 
and, as we watched the sad work, I thought — 
not how it had served its purpose, not how it 
could not be repaired — it was so old ; but of all 
the precious services that had been held there — 
the midnight Masses, the Christmas carols, the 
Baptismal Waters of Life, the marriage bells, 
the tolling for the last sad rites of the departed, 
the generations that had found this House the 
Way to Heaven. I thought of all the vicissi- 
tudes of this unstable life, and then found com- 
fort in His words : "I change not." Another 
man stood by, watching, as well as we, and 
presently he said to me : "Well, they will not 
teach the folly of the Cross there any longer." 
I knew the man well, and his family; and I 
answered him : "The last thing your dying 
father ever sought was the Cross to sign his 
brow in Baptism. Go home now, and on your 
knees ask The Christ if your father made a 
mistake ;" and with this we went our way. 

The Monastery boys have no lessons to-day, 
and Dr. Ageweight sent them a barrel of Bald- 
wins for the holiday. The day is very generally 
observed by the mountain folk. Mrs. Gardener 
and Herbert are here to dine with us, and Har- 
ry, toO', is here. The Master tells him to be 
like Washington^ and stick to what he under- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 177 

takes. Our dinner is just served — oysters, two 
roast turkeys, and the national dessert — pump- 
kin-pie. The 3un has just come out gloriously. 



CIX. 

February 23, 1900. 
The starry buds of the night have broken and 
blossomed into the flowers of day ; and all the 
meadows, the valleys, the streams and the hills 
are flushed with the myriad blossoms of gold 
and rose. The meadow-lark sings his minstrelsy 
of Spring, the bluebirds make the willows glad 
with song, and the crows tell that there is good 
living in the swamps — they are hastening to a 
feast. The Epicures ! I passed by the old church 
again, and it is all gone now. First the roof, 
then the frame, then the foundation, then no 
trace at all of where the Flouse of God stood 
so long. In a short time, men will not know 
that a church occupied this ground ; but there 
are names innumerable written in the Book 
of Life that found their way up to the 
Great White Throne through the gates of 
its glory, and these hold the little church in 
perpetual remembrance. I went into an old 
farm-house some mile or more on from where 
the church stood, and spoke to the owner of 
its removal : and as he brushed the sad tears 
from his eyes, he said : "Yes, it is gone : but 
it did a glorious work that will live, and in its 
place we have a better." And I thought how 
through all the centuries, wdien a civilization 



lyS Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

perished, God gave another and better to take 
its place. The 19th century is better than the 
i8th: Anglo-Saxon Civilization better than the 
Roman that preceded it ; and Man — risen, spir- 
itual and glorified — will be better than the suf- 
fering, toiling Race of to-day. In this Pres- 
ent a world's tears break against the Rock of 
Ages, and I do not think it strange that S. Paul 
wrote of ''filling up what is left behind of the 
sufferings of Christ." The compassions of The 
Eternal Spirit inspired an Apostle to write that 
''Jesus wept:" but the sunset of that Inspiration 
flushes the whole heavens with the promise — 
"There shall be no more tears, nor death, nor 
sorrow, nor crying. Neither shall there be any 
more pain, for the former things are passing 
away." 

Stephen is singing as I write, and his glorious 
voice swells out on the strain and the words — 
"Not till Earth and not till Heaven pass away." 
The green-houses are full of daffodils now, and 
the cabin is filled with their fragrances. Mrs. 
McDonald has a North Carolina shad for din- 
ner to-day, sent by Mr. Monroe to the Master, 
and we are looking forward to a treat. All 
send love to you, and the Master sends his 
blessing. 

ex. 

February 24, 1900. 
The air is as soft as balm this morning, Wal- 
lie ; those long, sweet notes of the meadow-lark 
fill the air, defying the Winter to come back; 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 179 

and the cabin is all open to the healing fragrances 
of Spring. We are just in from Mass — the Fes- 
tival of S. Matthias who was chosen in the place 
of Judas ; and the simple narrative in The Acts 
shows that in this first election of a Bishop there 
was no wire-pulling. And Judas, wdiat of him? 
The Christ said of him : ''Good were it for that 
man had he never been born !" The awfulest 
v.-ords ever spoken. When all is done, a man's 
realization that he has fallen short of what he 
ought to have done, what he ought to have been 
— this is Hell ; this is the meaning of Everlast- 
ing Punishment. Poor Judas ! Not a soul in 
all the world to whom he could turn in the hor- 
ror of that ineffable despair. But it is all for- 
given — There ; and "in the restitution of all 
things," he will be restored to his lost Apostle- 
ship. We v/alked again yesterday ; but the wind 
was cold, and the clouds were dull, and the sun- 
shine had none of that warm gold, and the birds 
were hushed — it w^as cheerless, as I sauntered 
among the ruins of the old church. Stephen sat 
on a fence overgrow^n with lichens, and sang 
gloriously, trying to coax a dogwood into blos- 
soming* but while it listened entranced by his 
tenor, it told him it must wait. I sat in the 
shelter of a rock, and the conscience-stricken 
wind moaned round me; but I heeded not the 
w^eather and the things outside, for I was think- 
ing of what used to be within the walls of the 
House of God whose work was done. How the 
sun streamed in through stained glass, flashing 
on the uplifted chalice and the white vestments 
of the Priest, and lighting up some sweet moth- 



i8o Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

er's face as she knelt with her sons to take the 
Eternal Bread. And those sons are now strong 
in Christ, and are out on the world's battle- 
field with the Blue of Heaven on their char- 
acter. In their fight with temptations they are 
inspired by their mother's strength, and are ex- 
erting the influences that transform men into the 
Likeness of Jesus Christ. Ah, now, I see a 
bridal party ! The bells clash, the organ rolls 
grand chords on the air, there is a scent of white 
roses, and a smother of whispers — "Here she 
comes !" And the twain are made one at the 
Altar, till death do them part. And a year's 
length is sped, and the bride creeps back, no 
expectant whispers to herald her : she comes in 
crape, and lays a bunch of violets on a new-made 
grave, for he is gone. She is alone till death do 
them join. "Come, Father !" and I am roused 
from my reverie to go back with my glad singer, 
for the day is done. 



CXI. 

February 25, 1900. 
The storm has tired itself out and every one 
else, Wallie, and is quiet. There is scarcely the 
heaving of a sob. I am looking at the dome of 
the mountains, and there the sunrise has spread 
a tabernacle for these last three days of the 
Winter, that they may take farewell of their 
realm and be gone. It is cold, and the snow 
spreads in cheerless wastes, and the frost locks 
the earth again; but still there are signs of 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. iSi 

Spring — a spider creeps over my paper as I 
write. His dormant time is past, though good 
Mrs. McDonald said again last night : *'God 
forgive the bear for lying." I think both she 
and Mrs. Bruce arc scarcely just to the bear, 
for he sazv his shadow Candle-Mass Day and 
went back to his den, not prophesying an early 
Spring. Stephen and I walked again yester- 
day to the ruined church, and in a pile of brick 
and mortar on the south side that defied the fu- 
rious blasts from the north, I found a dandelion 
yellow with strong gold. It changed the whole 
bleak, shivering scene into a soft tenderness of 
life, and I thought how a gleam of the Incar- 
nate Charity at last changes the whole moral and 
spiritual realm into the very Likeness of the 
Manhood that was at first swathed in the strains 
of the Gloria in Excelsis, and at last stretched 
out the Divine Hands 'in the benedictions of 
The Cross. We have had breakfast, and Ste- 
phen has just brought the mail. I have a let- 
ter from Mrs. Elliot who is in the orange groves 
of Florida. I know she misses Boston and her 
house there that looks out on ten thousand 
leagues of the sea and its roar and dash and salt 
and glorious health. Stephen has brought his 
buggy round to the study door and is going to 
take the Master home with him for an hour. 
Mrs. McDonald speaks to the colt and tells him 
he must be a gentleman. We were all at Mass 
at 7, and madame and I are going back to the 
second service at ii. It is Quinquagesima Sun- 
day — the last of "the Jessamine Sundays," as Mrs. 
Elliot calls them. And it is an appropriate name 



1 82 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Indeed, among the blossoms of Florida, where 
you and I spent that year of Heaven. It is 
time to go to service. Stephen has just brought 
the Master back. I am going to bring Harry 
back with me for the dav. 



cxn. 

February 27, 1900. 
Yesterday after lunch I went out with the 
Rhode Islander who had the morning to himself 
and came and spent it with us here at the cabin. 
We stood where the wood has been cut, and 
looked off toward Caltha on that long stretch 
of oaks that have kept their rich bronze-red 
leaves all the Winter. Lonely and sombre and 
undisturbed : a temple of grandeur, a house of 
prayer, a very cloister of devotion. Here man 
has not profaned the Glory of God. After my 
fellow-worshipper had left me, I went to the 
Monroes to dine with them, as I had promised 
Stephen. We sat a while and watched the lan- 
terns gleam on the dusk. Mrs. Monroe calls 
them her "Winter fire-flies." We had a roast 
turkey, and after dinner, Stephen and I smoked 
one of his Christmas cigars in the south win- 
dow that has all the luxuriance of Summer blos- 
soms and sweetness. A Jacqueminot rose burned 
like coals of fire, and told the shrinking ther- 
mometer to keep up its courage. While we 
talked, a tame crow that Harry gave Stephen 
came into the room and hopped up among the 
daffodils. He must be an aesthetic bird to be 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 183 

so fond of fragrances, though he has always 
had the name of being keen of scent for things 
not ahogether lovely. 

This morning at sunrise a pillar of cloud and 
fire rose high into the heavens, as the far-off 
train waited at the station, and there was such 
glory and splendour in it. The morning spread 
its tabernacle of peach-blow light on the dome 
of the hills again, and the undaunted birds are 
telling the woods that the day will be like Spring 
— swelling the sap, and loosening the dumb 
tongues of the brooks. Just to see the light on 
the mountain-tops ! It would bring a blessing 
to toiling men could they but stop a moment 
and learn that the heights are first illumined, 
and afterward the valleys. The men who heard 
the Gloria in Excelsis were on the hill-tops, and 
the men who hear it to-day are on the heights. 
It is because the Christ was born on the hills, 
and died on the hills, and from the hills went 
back to the Triumph of His Throne — that He 
is able to minister consolations to souls in the 
depths of suffering. To-night we are all going 
to the Monastery to eat Shrove Tuesday pan- 
cakes and to enjoy a nut-cracking. I am to 
read ^Tam o' Shanter" to the lads. 



CXIII. 



Ash Wednesday, February 28, 1900. 
February has given her last gift to the world, 
Wallie, except a last royalty of purple stars to 
draw round to-night's hours of sleep; and to- 



184 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

morrow Spring will sit upon the throne of em- 
pire. We remember no more the anguish. I 
found a crow caught in a thicket, as I walked 
with the boys, Stephen and Harold, yesterday. 
Harold was home for the day, and we walked 
to his house with him, after his call at the cabin. 
I loosened the unfortunate bird, and then he 
looked at me with so much gratitude. The scent 
of the south wind was in his midnight plumage, 
and he attempted to thank me with a song which 
was a failure from a musical standard, though 
not from courtesy. If during the day you hear 
a crow more demonstrative in his eloquence than 
others, know that it is he. The sunrise gave 
madame, Her Majesty, the Passing Month — a 
sceptre and a crown of reddest gold, and a fire 
of rose-light sifted through all the frosty air 
making it soft with the new life of Spring. Greg- 
ory Livingstone called yesterday and brought his 
sweet chtmk of a lad, Kenneth, and the dear 
little fellow sang a song about the violets that 
thrilled me with a feeling of Spring that has 
tingled in my nerves ever since. The meadow- 
larks, too, this morning sing with full-throated 
gladness. The maples burn with new tides of 
life, and the brook in the sunshine has all its 
Cardinal glow of Summer-time. The year is 
verily rising from the depths of death. We all 
went to the Monastery last night and had the 
Shrove Tuesday pancakes and maple syrup. Be- 
sides the cakes, we had fried oysters and cof- 
fee which was sent to the Abbot by a gentle- 
man who has a plantation in Brazil. Herbert 
came home with us from Mass this morning 




Original hy John DeCamp. 



HAROLD ANDERSON. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 185 

for breakfast, he is here for half a day with his 
mother. Here on the hills the same services 
were heard 200 years ago, and to-day Heaven 
and Earth are one in the worship of Him Who 
in that first Lent carried the bitter Cross. ''What 
hast thoii done for me?" cries His voice to-day. 
We ought to give Him the untiring worship that 
goes up from the heart of the forests. Harry 
sits with me before the glowing hearth, and after 
our simple lunch will go out with me to the 
Monroes. Mrs. McDonald has asked him to re- 
main with us until to-morrow morning. He 
brought the Master a box of Passion-flowers. 



CXIV. 

March i, 1900. 

Yesterday, Stephen brought us "The Love 
Letters of a Musician," and we have all read it. 
I sat in my corner this morning and read it as 
the lights went down the hills, and I shall hand 
it to Harry to-night : he, too, must read it. We 
see in it visions of Easter lilies and ripened 
wheat-fields and the year's death and the per- 
ished golden-rod bent down with snow. The 
story has such an exquisite refinement, and its 
beauty is like the hemlock trees when the snow 
rests lightly on their branches. It thrilled me 
to see its pain end in such triumphant joy, and 
I put the book down with the feeling that I had 
been in a higher mood. 

We are still twenty days from the Equinox, 
but the first thing this morning I cried : ''Lo 
the Winter is past !" We feel so much differ- 



1 86 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

ent when MarcH comes. The rain-drops hang" 
in pearls of blossoms from the trees, and at mid- 
night Spring began. Although there are long 
stretches of snow on the hills and in the fields 
and in the depths of the woods, still there is cer- 
tainty that there is but a step now between the 
frosts and a world of blossoms. A squirrel 
chattered to me yesterday evening as I walked, 
and a meadow-lark sang his sweet notes of com- 
fort. It softened all the severity into an hour 
of balm. I hid behind a ledge of rocks on the 
south side of the hills, and there the sun was 
warm, and no touch of ice in the song of the 
brook. The mosses and the lichens glistened with 
steam on the wet, black stones, and the sumachs 
had all the intense brilliancy that burned so 
steadily through all the bleak months of cold. 
A busy crow was near enough to speak with, 
and he told me that he was making a water- 
proof coat, for he was going at midnight to- 
the new month's reception, and, as there would 
be rain, he did not wish to have his full-dress 
suit ruined. I told him I wished I were as 
weather-wise as he, and he said that I could 
no more learn it than he could learn to sing. 
I asked him then if he wished to learn to sing, 
and he said no, for his voice was still the same 
as in the Spring-time of the world's youth, and 
he would keep it unto the end. Mrs. Bruce met 
me on Bluet Ridge as I returned ; she was on 
her way to the cabin with a branch of shad-tree 
that had blossomed on her hearth. How fresh 
they were ! and all that woody smell, and so 
white in their frail beauty. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 187 

CXV. 

March 2, 1900. 
I have just returned from "the boggy 
meadow," WalHe, where the patient "hermits" 
wait for Spring. I wish you could have seen 
the maples as the wind tossed their branches 
against the dark purple of the mountain-side. 
With the eyes of memory I saw all the beauty 
of their tender leaves and blossoms, and their 
fragrances were on the harsh air, refining it into 
the softness of May. I passed by an old anvil 
and blacksmith shop used a hundred years since, 
and that long ago brought back the songs of 
the glowing iron and a whole midnight of stars 
burning on the forge — but now the hands and 
the strength that made them are perished dust, 
and a net-work of wild-rose briers is spread 
over the ruined shop, where soon the warm rains 
and the sunshine will give a wilderness of pink 
blossoms. The old Indian River tossed the foam 
of its wild race high in the air, and dashed over 
the rocks furious in its strength, and caught the 
shad-trees that fringe its margins, and scattered 
broken rainbow light and stars on the air. Oh, 
there was so much health and restfulness and 
beauty in the walk ! I wish you could have en- 
joyed it, too. Young Stephen came over yes- 
terday evening after the storm, and brought a 
large box to the Master. We opened it with 
eager hearts and found it full of Easter lilies 
which some friends of the Monroes had brought 
with them from the Bermudas. How beauti- 



1 88 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

ful they are and how they fill the cabin with 
their sweet life ! Oh, there is so strong a per- 
sonality in some flowers ! and where there is 
such fragrance there must be a soul conscious 
of it all. Yes, an Easter lily has a soul. Mrs. 
Bruce is in the kitchen and has brought a pur- 
ple orchid which through all the Winter she has 
cherished, and now it has rewarded her with a 
radiance like the depths of light above. 



CXVI. 

March 3, 1900. 
That warm mist of onyx light drifts over the 
mountain-side again in this hour of sunrise, 
and the trunks of the trees stand like flaming 
columns. I am at the windows looking toward 
the Caltha, and there is a soft light there, brood- 
ing, with healing in its beams, over where the 
stream and the grass and the perished leaves 
of yesterday will soon shine with the conscious 
gold of blossoms. I sat in the rock chair yes- 
terday, back of that window in heaven, as the 
sun sped over the home-stretch of the race, and 
looking over tO' the avenue of "The Ghosts of 
the Leaves," thought of the strange, sweet story 
that Convallaria told me the other day of that 
long ago. It was a wild Winter night of wind 
and snow well nigh 200 years since, and an 
Indian was on his way to the cabin of the Regi- 
cide. Suddenly there shone before him a stalk 
of the Easter lilies, it would appear, erect and 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 189 

beautiful in the storm and every petal and stamen 
well defined on the blackness. The fragrance 
thrilled him, he thought, and he wondered at 
a thing so strange. Coming nearer to it a voice 
spake, and, lo, a little child all luminous with 
the light! ''Go to the cabin behind the Cleft 
Rock," it said, ''and call my mother." The 
old chieftain said he would carry him in his 
arms to his mother. The child would not con- 
sent, and the Indian went to the cabin, and called 
the mother. "Why, it is not my child. He 
is dead : we buried him yesterday." The In- 
dian's insistence was so strong, though, that 
she went with him. And the little dead child 
cried, stretching out its arms : "I can't find my 
way up to Heaven alone ; come, mother, and car- 
ry me." "Oh, my babe, my babe," cried the 
mother, and a puff of snow filled her arms, noth- 
ing more ; and the strong man carried her back 
to her home to wait until there shall be no 
more Sea! 



CXVII. 



March 6, 1900. 
Her Majesty February came and usurped the 
throne of the year while young March, in an 
unguarded moment, was gone to see the blos- 
soming mosses of the woods. His fine courtesy 
would not allow him to protest, but I over- 
heard him tell the robins that he would not have 
to ask for the throne. "I bide my time," he said : 
"but a little while and you will see madame's 



190 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

confusion, wItH the sun shooting fiery arrows 
all round." 

The cabin is all closed again this morning, and 
the hearth-fires seem to have a new lease of 
power, as the logs crack and snap, and shoot 
out great tongues of flame, and fill the house 
with the odours of the woods. I was out in 
the swamp again yesterday, and the sumachs 
with burning torches led the procession of the 
flowers. The ''Hermits of the bogs" were there 
in their purple cowls, and how like tulips of va- 
rious colours they seem ! The willows carried 
golden trumpets, and the many birds rained 
halleluias down. To-day, we shiver over the 
fire, though the persistent voices of Nature still 
sing that the Winter is past. How hushed it is ! 
There is a rhythmic sweetness in the very silence 
of the snowflakes. Heaven seals the beginning 
of the Spring's career with whiteness : and the 
judgment means whether man have kept his 
Spring-time's whiteness of character. After 
Evensong I went yesterday and supped with 
the Monroes. We enjoyed a broiled steak with 
cress from the brook there in their glen, and, 
besides, we had an omelette and muffins and a 
cup of coffee. It was a cosey restful hour in 
that environment of refined life and books, and I 
love to go there. After supper, Stephen took 
me up to his study, and having lighted the 
hearth-fire and the candles, we sat and smoked 
one of his Christmas cigars. Far out on the 
hills the sunset burned on the budding oaks and 
the maples: the clouds were flushed with the 

delicate hues of the Arbutus: that wondrous 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse 191 

star glistened on the liquid gold, and vesper 
songs went up from the brook that has streaked 
the meadow with fresh grass. I left at 8, and 
hy agreement met Harry at Brow-wait, and 
took him home with me for the night. We waved 
our lanterns long before we met, and Mrs. Mc- 
Donald had a light in one of the dining-room 
windows where she waited for us. 



CXVIII. I 



March 7, 1900. 
February has fled. Picked up her snow-em- 
broidered skirts, and stood not upon the order 
of her going, but went at once, as soon as the 
golden arrows of the sun fell around, uncom- 
fortably near. Her majesty sped away, just as 
young March said. The crows are holding a 
convention in the woods, and the robins are chat- 
tering, and the meadow-larks are telling the glad 
news of Spring — ever new and ever old, and of 
which we never tire ; the very same that filled 
the air, the first Spring after Columbus planted 
here the standard of the Cross. The air this 
morning stung the nerves of us all with a splen- 
did activity, and the cabin is all new life. The 
ducks are jabbering about mudholes and worms, 
the dogs are racing through the woods, and old 
Mully — getting away from Jamie — flourishes her 
tail high in air, and flings herself about, re- 
gardless of dignity. I hear the boys of the 
Monastery shouting, out of doors — the sap has 
gotten into their blood. What pure, glad, un- 



192 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

troubled voices ! The old snake has not yet 
crept into the Eden of their lives with the hiss 
and sting of the old lie. I was up at 5, be- 
fore the stars had covered their fires and the old 
Master sat alone in the library reading, or 
rather dreaming thoughts of worship over a book 
that had caught visions of God, and still quivered 
in every page with the throbbings of the writer's 
heart. I went down to the Caltha Swamp, and 
left him to himself. And there the brook sang, 
and the mossy rocks shone with the first light, 
and the trees were talking among themselves of 
the incense of blossoms — the hills were filled with 
their Benedicite. An old woman came through 
the stile, as I stood there : ''What, good 
mother, out so early?" "Yes, Father, one never 
gets old who feels the joy of Spring, the birds, 
the swelling buds, the scent of flowers." And 
her firm, quick step told that her inner life was 
strong in immortal youth. 



■ CXIX. 

March 10, 1900. 
The hills are girt round with mists this morn- 
ing, Wallie, and all the trees drip with steam. 
The gold of the East comes and goes on the 
clouds, and the day will turn them all into splen- 
dours of light, an hour hence. I sauntered 
through the woods yesterday with the Abbot and 
Stephen, and it was real Spring. The sun was 
warm on our backs, and there was not a breath 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 193 

of wind. As we looked off on the distant woods, 
we could see them swept clean and fresh, and 
broad stretches of sunshine filled them, and 
every tree seemed so well defined in the bright- 
ness, and the purple heat quivered above the 
ground, and gnats and flies flashed and 
buzzed in the warm air, rejoicing that their 
long sleep is past. Ferns brightened a whole 
hillside near Cardinal Brook, as fresh and 
bright as if they had not known a three 
months' fight with storms. A bluebird touched 
a bough with a bit of sky, and heaven 
seemed nearer to us from his moment of visi- 
tation. An owl in a dusky hemlock whose 
glory wanes before the Spring, came and sat 
in the door of his house, and cried : "To let, 
to let!" But a robin to whom the offer was 
made, showed himself a bit ungracious, and quar- 
relled with the philosopher who turned with- 
out a word and retired within the abode of wis- 
dom. The Abbot turned to Stephen with a 
laugh, saying: "Another illustration, boy, that 
it takes two to make a quarrel successful." Con- 
vallaria found an Hepatica a day or two ago, 
at the door of the cave under Bluet Ridge, and 
this morning she brought the plant to me full 
of blossoms, hastened by the warmth of the 
hearth. Mrs. McDonald found the cow, a few 
minutes ago, looking through the green-house 
windows, a wistful look in her eyes, and she 
seemed to think that a bunch of carnations would 
go far toward curing the melancholy that con- 
sumes her in the Spring. All send love to you, 
and hope to see you to-morrow. 



194 Mountain Walks of a Recluse,' 

CXX. 

March 12, igoo. 
The Sim has turned all the mountain-sides 
to peach-blow; and the meadow-lark, mounting 
the clouds, pours down the healing songs that 
warm the frosty air with Spring life again. The 
ground is frozen hard this morning, the naked 
trees shiver, the wind howls — but the glad, de- 
fiant birds bid shivering mortals not to take it 
to heart — there is a great surge of blossoms the 
other side of the transient frost and cold. The 
water shines in sunlight, as Cardinal Brook flashes 
down the glen, and there is a steam on the mossy 
rocks that makes the little valley seem cosey and 
warm. I find the hearth-fire a comfort this morn- 
ing, and the logs glow like mid-Winter, though 
only three days ago the cabin was all thrown 
open, and the sun poured in, and the fire was 
intolerable — the changes are so extreme. I met 
a crow yesterday, and he held a kalendar, from 
which he was reading, and in the same tone of 
voice that belonged to his fore-fathers in the 
Garden of Eden, and as he read, his audience 
listened with the utmost deference, while he 
informed them that the Master and all the house- 
hold of Ageweight love the birds, and within 
this city of refuge, no harm could molest them, 
they were as safe as in that sweet Eden of old. 
Ah, man will get lost Eden back, when man 
trusts man like that ! The hearts of mortals 
like the noonday splendours of light; character 
like the stainless blue; every home like the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 195 

Home of Nazareth ; no serpent of temptation 
in the Tree of Life, with its blasphemous He 
against God ; the poison of sin no longer sting 
and madden the veins of Humanity ; the wild roses 
of the swamp weave peace over the cannon's 
mouth ; the swords of war rust into bluets. The 
wind sinks to Aeolian whispers and the russet 
leaves on the porch tell us that across the ridge 
of noontide the day will soften into the softness 
of balm again. Mrs. McDonald's linnet has just 
been stung by an arrow of the East: just hear 
his Benedicite ! 



CXXI. 



March 13, 1900. 
The sun nears the middle of his race now, Wal- 
lie, and all the power, the majesty, the splendour 
of the year breaks upon him from the heights. 
The wind is hushed this morning, and there is 
promise of heat in the air. All over the hills 
drifts the warm turquoise light that is 
so restful to weary mind and heart; the soft 
colour of apple-blossom light on the waiting 
woods easily reconciles one to wait for the blos- 
soms themselves. How all their trunks, and all 
the stems of the shrubs, glow with sunrise, 
like, the golden pipes of an organ! All 
the clouds have weighed anchor, and drifted 
from the West to the seas of the morning, and 
all their full sails burn with gold as they wait 
for the Admiral of March to lead them to the 
conquest of Summer lands. We kept the cabin 



196 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

closely, yesterday, and shivered before the fires, 
for the north wind scourged the hills and Win- 
ter stung the air. I was out a while with Ste- 
phen through Cowldeep, and there was a com- 
forting promise from the hermits who stand 
glorious with strength and hidden blossoms 
through all the rage of frost and death. I saw 
some men waist deep in water digging out a 
race, others tightened rails on the road over Cowl- 
deep, and on the south side of the bridge, I saw 
a tramp shivering over a fire of coals which he 
had built. I spoke to him, and he answered 
with a surprise of gladness in his voice, as though 
he expected no kindly recognition from men. 
Poor worthless fellows ! And yet the Christ 
said that what is done to the very least, the 
lowest of mankind, is done to Himself. We can't 
know what God means, until we learn the 
Christ's estimate of the value of a human life. 
The sunshine mounts the barriers of the hem- 
locks and the sumachs as I write, and the library 
is filled with day. It's like a tidal wave of daf- 
fodils, as it breaks upon the hills. The Ab- 
bot and the boys were here last night, and, we 
still feel the pleasure of their visit. 



CXXII. 



March 15, 1900. 

The clouds are rich with dust of gold this 

morning, Wallie ; and the heavens are grey, as 

if the ashes of a burnt-out day had been strewn 

upon them. The mountains are cold and omi- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 197 

nous of snow, though there are but twenty-nine 
days ere the bluets wrap their first-born in tur- 
quoise Hght, and lay them on the Altar of the 
hills — a g'lad thanksgiving. The trees are whis- 
pering of new leaves this morning, and there is 
not a bird to cheer the hushed air, for they are 
all listening to what the trees are saying. A 
crow sits on a leafless branch near me, listen- 
ing to the rivulets of sap that are going upward ; 
and a robin on the lawn has his delicate claw 
on the pulse of IMarch to see if the fires of Spring 
have begun to burn the lusty monarch's blood. 
He seems satisfied with the diagnosis, and has 
gone to tell the Hepaticas that they may put 
off their blanket of russet leaves, for Heaven 
is ready to send them down a coat of many col- 
ours. The dear bird ought to know, for he has 
winged the steeps of heaven so often. I met 
a group of rough men in my walk yesterday, 
sunning themselves against the warm rocks of 
the old mill. I thought they seemed to feel 
my presence there an intrusion ; but I bid them 
a good-day, calling them gentlemen — 'a word 
that the world never knew until the lightnings 
of the Gloria in Excelsis burned it on the skies 
of Bethlehem — and I was rewarded by seeing 
them soften toward me in a moment ; they seemed 
to know that the aristocracy of The Gospel had 
made us brothers. The lost world's systems of 
Isms will all break themselves at last against 
the gentleness of The Gospel, and the Right- 
eousness of Christ will be the only Might. We 
all go to the Monastery to sup to-night, and en- 
joy a steak garnished with the first cress from 



igS Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Catrdinal Brook. I am to give some Shake- 
speare recitations afterward and enjoy an hour 
with the boys. It is high noon now. Harry 
PhilHps has just come to pay his deference to the 
Master and to return *'Coriolanus" which he 
has read and re-read. I tell him I want him to 
be like the young Patrician, except his scorn. 
He has put the book into the case with its crim- 
son fellows, and has gone out to see Mrs. Mc- 
Donald in the kitchen. I hear her counting "ii, 
12, i8, 20, 24!" He brought her two dozen 
daffodils in a box that he carried carefully under 
his arm. Just in from the city, and the agent 
told the lad he could have the rest of the day 
to himself. We are all very glad, for he has not 
been able to be with us much of late. He 
brought a strong dash of Spring with him, and 
even the linnet tunes himself to a new fulness of 
songs. We had a baked shad for dinner, ome- 
lette and toast, muffins and mince-pie, and a cup 
of coffee. We are going to keep the lad, and 
take him with us to the Monastery. Goodby. I 
am in my corner looking out on the green hills. 



cxxni. 



March 16, 1900. 
I had a pleasant episode in my life yesterday^ 
Wallie. After writing your note, I went out into 
the shrouded fields and stood a while at the wires. 
Over on the Maple avenue, I saw the overseer of 
the Gardener estate driving along in his cart, 
and, though so far away, I waved my hand to 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 199 

him in salutation. He saw, and returned a like 
measure of courtesy, and that bond of sympathy 
between the man of letters and the man of hard 
hands gave a pleasure that went with me all day. 
The book of our daily intercourse with men is a 
living Gospel that makes the Christ the mightiest 
factor in the world's life. We must find Him in 
the lives of men ; we can't know Him from the 
page of printer's ink. How much nearer to Him 
is the man who keeps his temper than the learned 
theologian who wrangles over creeds ! Do you 
remember how He said that the sign of the .Son 
of Man would be shown on the heavens? Well, 
that sign of the Son of Man is the Cross, and we 
must look into the heavens if we would see it ; 
we must look into the depths of light for the 
revelation of the mystery of suffering — and back 
of all that is the power and the great glory of 
His very Presence and coming again. Mrs. Mc- 
Donald has just filled the vases of the study with 
daffodils, and they shine like that one lone star 
on the Western sky. Who would think that all 
this beauty and youth and fragrance could spring 
up out of the frozen earth? And thus shall the 
obdurate hearts of men be softened at last by 
the Light that broke from That Grave in the Gar- 
den. We feel the strong personality of the 
Spring here on the hills, and the breast of every 
bud on all the trees is ready to break into a song. 
Convallaria is just coming over Bluet Ridge; she 
has been to take some lilies to the Abbot. Young 
Stephen is to take a cup of coffee with us at 
noon, and we are going out for lichens. 



200 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

CXXIV. 

March 17, 1900. 
The calendar says if s Spring ; the thermometer 
says it's mid-Winter. A crow, aloft in the light, 
says the shivering thermometer has no courage. 
The hills are all spread with cloth of gold this 
morning, Wallie ; the brook sings on merrily 
adown the glen, with broken fetters of the ice 
lying all round. The chords of music were 
stronger than the cords of frost. Though the 
trees are insulated with ice, every bud has a 
song in its breast, to tell of the broken sepul- 
chres of the flowers ; and the sunbeams are bear- 
ing the snow splendours up to heaven to turn 
them Into the life and the fragrances of April 
rains. The Master read last night to a number 
of the school-boys a story of a woman in Scottish 
history who lost her life in a snowstorm late in 
Spring. She started out one morning, with 
babe at breast, to walk to a distant village ; but 
as she journeyed the warmi sunshine gave place 
to clouds and storm. The blinding snow at 
length bewildered her, and she was numb with 
cold. Stumbling, by chance, upon a great rock 
on the moor, she wrapt her child in her own scant 
clothing, and placed him in a cleft, on a bed of 
warm, soft heather, and then stumbled on for a 
short distance, and fell, unconscious, in the drift. 
Next morning some shepherds found the dead 
mother, her face glorious in death, and a babe's 
sobbing led them to the rock, where the child 
was safe, no harm having come to him in the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 201 

storm that cost his mother her life. He lived to 
man's estate and prospered — worthy of such a 
a mother — and came back in his old age to his 
native village to die, telling to them around his 
deathbed that he was about to find shelter in the 
very place where he found it when a babe — in 
the Cleft of the Rock— the Rock of Ages. I tell 
you the story, thinking you might not have heard 
it. The Monroes are to dine with us to-night at 
7, and Mrs. McDonald is getting ready some 
wild duck that a sportsman brought to the Master 
last night. 



cxxv. 



March 20, 1900. 
March blows the trumpet of the Equinox to- 
day, Wallie; from now onward the sun's journey 
through the heavens burns with life and power 
and glory. Old Indian Creek roars on its course, 
telling the glad tidings to the trees and the shrubs 
on its banks ; the crows are going north ; the 
skies drop down the songs of birds ; all Nature 
rejoices, and lifts up the chorus of its thousand- 
fold Benedicite. The Hemlock valley is full of 
ghosts this morning — the ghosts of other Win- 
ters come back to carry the passing Winter unto 
its fathers. The train fills the valley with echoes 
as it goes out into the great world ; the "Hermits" 
lift their cowls, and pray that the journey may 
be peace to the travellers, that they may be kept 
from every danger of the way. How content 
they are to occupy their lowly station ! Never to 



202 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

stir from the place of their birth; never to lose 
heart through all the desolations of Winter ; 
never to cease teaching a doubting world that 
men must rise again. Its withered leaves strew 
the bogs, but the buds of the coming year tell 
that death shall be lost in Life. We have just 
finished an early breakfast, and Mrs. McDonald 
is putting out the candles — their light is gone to 
keep company with the stars. The fire dreams on 
the hearth, resting from its work. The ducks are 
having a splash in the brook; the robins on the 
lawn are jabbering about slugs ; old Mully con- 
tributes a heart-searching bawl to the chorus of 
glad voices about the cabin. The Spring is in 
her blood ; it's time to turn her back on the past, 
she thinks. There is a touch of gold on the wil- 
lows, and such a wholesome smell goes up from 
the woods. The Master sits on the porch, enjoy- 
ing the sweet fragrances of the year. The Sum- 
mer of the house can soon trust itself out of 
doors. I sat under a tree in Caltha yesterday 
for a while, and the grass glistened with the soft 
rain that fell in drops of pearl from the branches. 
The woods always have something new to tell, 
and something that adds to the dignity of life. 



CXXVI. 



March 22, 1900. 
My pen has been out to say '^Good morning" 
to the crows, Wallie ; and how many things they 
said to it, I know not, but it paid the utmost atten- 
tion. I think they told it, for one thing, that the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 203 

ink would no more be in peril from the frost, and 
that when it needed colour they would come and 
stir it with their midnight wings. Just hear 
them ! I saw eleven of them on wing, pushing 
woodward to wrap themselves in the warmth of 
the hemlocks where the night has gone to sleep. 
The last snow crunched under my feet, and the 
night had strewn the fields with frost jewels, 
every one of which held a blazing mirror to the 
sun. The very silence of the fields thrilled me 
with its health, and I felt myself in the sanctuary 
of worship that makes men as broad-chested as 
God's blue. We live too much within doors, and 
depend too much on stoves and thermometers and 
medicines. There would be fewer doctors' visits, 
and we would forget a thousand ailments, and 
would cease to look at things with bilious eyes, 
and old age would come gloriously like the foli- 
age, and we would look into the face of the last 
enemy and find man's truest friend — if we would 
abandon the stuffy houses, and, like the birds, 
live more in the fields. Moses, we read, was 
120 years old ; his eye was not dim from age, 
he had all the superb strength of manhood, and 
for eighty years he had not been inside of a house. 
There was S. John Baptist. He was ''in the 
deserts till the day of his showing unto Israel," 
and with thoughts as wide as the blue, and man- 
hood drenched with the light, and sympathies as 
wholesome as that eternal health could make 
them — it's no wonder that such a man was chosen 
to reveal the Christ. And here my pen says five- 
minute sermons are enough. All send love. 



204 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

CXXVII. 

March 2:^, 1900. 

The clouds this morning, WalHe, look as if 
a v/orld of daffodils were veiled by their grey. 
It is the softest air we have had—all the harsh- 
ness of the fields melted into the songs of the 
bluebirds. Caltha is luminous with the foam 
of the dashing brook and with the weight of 
gold that is to break from the patient blossoms 
beneath. There are but patches of snow left 
on the hills now, and they look like stretches of 
linen put out to bleach. 

7:30 A. M. I have just come in from the 
great sanctuary of the fields. The frost was like 
a delicate veil of lace over the woods, and the 
shining crystals lay an unknown wealth under 
my feet. I think men are strongly tempted to 
extravagance by the splendours and the ex- 
travagance of glory in the world all round them. 
I met a worshipper beside myself. He stood in 
silence behind the old mill on the Gardener es- 
tate, near the warm ridge where the Hepaticas 
blossom sooner than anywhere else on the hills ; 
and I went my way without disturbing him. He 
was a man who, evidently, had not made the 
best use of his advantages, had not gotten on 
in the world, had not kept abreast of the race, 
had not been true to the responsibility that 
God requires of men : but with all this envir- 
onment of new buds and songs and light and 
music of the waters and new surgings of life 
from the sod, I felt that he must at last, feel 
the "far more exceeding and Eternal Weight 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse 205 

of Glory" and turn unto the Majesty of Man- 
hood that will not be ashamed to stand in That 
Day before the Son of Man. The Abbot with 
a number of his boys was here last night and 
had a quiet hour with us, while the Master and 
Stephen Monroe played a game of chess. After 
the game, we had a song or two, not forget- 
ting "a scrappet o' cake for the puir bodies," 
as good Mrs. McDonald said in her sympathy 
with the lads. I went through the green-houses 
of Monksrest again yesterday, and the sky is 
still held a prisoner in the hearts of the morn- 
ing-glories. Cleft Rock was radiant with Cla- 
donias, and I sat there a while to enjoy the 
warm buzzlngs of the flies. Harry has just 
come. He has the rest of the day to himself, 
and we are going to Monksrest, the gardener 
there is going to give him an Australian tree 
fern like that in Mrs. Anderson's bay window. 
We are just starting out. Mrs. McDonald is 
to have oysters in a chafing dish, and warns 
us to be back on time. At Monksrest, we are 
just back, Harry read an article on John B^ar- 
tram, the first American botanist, and the Mas- 
ter, who saw the garden, tells us that the golden 
opulence of its chrysanthema lives in his mem.- 
ory a fadeless splendour. 



cxxvni. 



March 26, 1900. 
All is hushed on the hills this morning, Wal- 
lie : there is scent of rain in the air, and the sky 
is grey wnth clouds that have dusted their wings 



2o6 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

with the pollen of the eastern gold. The birds 
fill all the vast silences with song, the ears are 
drenched with chords invisible from the heav- 
ens. Near at hand, a robin sings, and it's like 
the inspiration of some Easter carol. He has 
outgrown the timidity that scarcely allowed his 
voice to be heard the first of the month, and 
sings now with full-throated courage that makes 
fearful mortals take heart again. A crimson 
feather from his breast floated down and me- 
thought it burned with the joy of Halleluias. 
The dear bird has recovered from his all- Win- 
ter, China-berry debauch, and in his new en- 
vironment lives an exalted life that has put 
under foot, and forgotten, the old life of pas- 
sion — and what instinct enables the bird to do, 
Man, with the Godhead in his breast, can do. 
We can overcome ! The Master sits with a glass, 
examining a plate of Umbillcaria and Cladonia 
lichens which Stephen Monroe brought him yes- 
terday. The ducks, too, on the porch, are like- 
wise engaged, and evidently get food, whether 
for thought, or no, remiains a question. A work- 
man passes this way now, every morning. I 
met him just a short time ago, and the Spring 
was in his blood and in his firm walk. The way 
is long for him, but he loves the woods — and 
the companionship of the crows, and the songs 
of birds, and the wealth of lichen colour on 
the rocks and the primrose gold of sunrise on 
the hills go with him all day, a tonic to the hours 
of work. Such men know the length, the 
breadth, the depth, the height of questions that 
burn men's very soul-depths: they conquer nar- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 20y^ 

rowness. Convallaria has gone out to find the 
first blood root : Mrs. McDonald is talking with 
Mrs. Bruce about Easter bonnets : Jamie is 
teaching Mully the sin of dancing — she showed 
herself a little hilarious over a cabbage. All 
send love to you. 



CXXIX. 



March 27, 1900. 
The moon shot a bunch of silver arrows into 
my room at 5 this morning, Wallie, and they 
had been dipped in the fire of day. It is the 
busy time of whistles, as I write — they are call- 
ing the world of labour to its work. The hum 
of industry has closed the gates of sleep. The 
sunbeams are marching over the hills : the sap 
is coursing through the veins of the woods : 
the brook is singing to the lichened rocks : 
the birds are telling, on the keys of heaven, 
that the frosts and the snows are wending their 
way to the lost Yesterdays. Man and all Na- 
ture are at work. The Master is out to see 
the woods in their ermine robes. How beauti- 
ful they are this morning ! The hemlocks look 
as if Winter had received a new lease of power, 
not knowing that this last snow is the winding 
sheet of March. I went out to drink the beau- 
ty for a while, and saw the workman from be- 
yond Caltha Swamp, as he went to his work. 
The light snow seemed more like white blossoms 
on the bosom of the hills. The green-house is 
full of Easter lilies now, holding the old fra- 



2c8 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

grances of Eden, and like the snow for white- 
ness. The boys of the school are all out on the 
mountain-side tossing the snow, shouting in their 
glee, filling the old hills with their ringing voices, 
giddy as the brook. The stately crows think 
that students have but little dignity. They have 
a recess in a few days now ; not the crows — 
the boys, I mean. The crows say that there is 
fine living In the swamps now, and they are very 
busy, no time for rest. I asked one of them 
what that bar of song was that I heard this 
morning, and he said with modesty that It was 
a crow-bar. I think the robin was unneces- 
sarily frank when he said that the crow's voice 
was a cross between a buzz-saw and the bray 
of a jackass. The crow retorted that the robin 
had just recovered from an all-Winter debauch 
and is not responsible for what he says. 



cxxx. 



March 28, 1900. 
I sat with the Abbot an hour on the south 
porch of the Monastery, yesterday, Wallie, and 
enjoyed the movements of the crows in the 
old walnut-trees. The robins on the lawn were 
busy — one in particular braced himself, and then 
hauled a worm from the earth. And then what 
a dainty meal he made ! He was satisfied with 
himself 'and all the world, and he had the right 
to be, for he had accomplished a great feat — 
though an envious crow called him a butcher. 



'r^ Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 209 

Tne snn has no warmth this morning, for the 
wind is from the furious North, making a last 
effort to keep the Winter here. The crows in 
the woods watch the contest; and, pointing in 
derision to where the frost is mehing on the 
south of the hills, cry: ''Ca, ca, caT' to add 
to the wrath of the old blusterer. A snow- 
flake made a visit to the green-house, and asked 
one of the Annunciation lilies if it would like 
its nectar served with the frost of December or 
the maple syrup of the coming April — and when 
the beautiful flower smiled graciously, the lone- 
ly snowflake lost heart, and now lies a radiant 
tear reflecting the splendours of rainbow light 
from one of the stamens of the flower. And 
thus shall all that pertained to the Winter be 
changed. I stood in the shelter of a ledge of 
rocks where it was 30 degress warmer than 10 
feet away, and the first bit of Arbutus flushed 
into its exquisite, soft pink of blossoms : farther 
down the windswept woods, the old house of 
sunny gables was warm with sunbeams; the 
russet leaves shone with red gold ; the birds 
dashed carols from the trees. I watched the men 
go by to their w^ork, each one carrying a din- 
ner-pail ; and I thought on how much higher 
plane life will be when we shall not have to give 
such constant care to the things of flesh and 
sense. The more divine within us will then no 
longer lie undeveloped, and that will be Heaven. 
S. Stephen was so glorious of countenance in 
the hour of martyrdom because the Godhead of 
his life dominated the life that must perish. 



2IO Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

CXXXI. 

March 29, 1900. 
Winter still lingers, and has held the throne 
of March throughout the month, Wallie. You 
must not come to the hills again expecting 
Spring, until the fragrances of the Arbutus on 
the south V\^ind call you. I found a bit of Spring, 
though, in my walk yesterday in the valley. Get- 
ting beneath an hill, suddenly there was a great 
calm, and the air was like May. The flies and 
the gnats made music, and dashed about ex- 
uberant with life. A tramp lay on the red rus- 
set leaves : they were able, even in death, to give 
comfort to man. I tried to speak to him, but 
he would not look up, and so I left him to him- 
self. The waves of light roll gloriously over 
the hills this morning, and the splendours of light 
make one forget the sting of frost in the air. 
I have just been out to Caltha, and a lady who 
is on a visit to the cabin was with me. She went 
out pale and weary-looking, like a fading lily, 
but she came back just overpowered with the 
strong surgings of health, and her face was 
as if all the roses of June had kissed her over and 
over again. If she were to write a book now, 
it would be full of optimism, and would make 
the world better. Books fail to reach the world's 
aching heart because the writers have never felt 
the miracle of out-of-doors life, and heard the 
robins of Spring-time sound their clarions of 
gladness. A robin just now has dashed the air 
with notes that would blunt the edge of every 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 211 

ailment in the world. We read S. John's Revela- 
tion, and are thrilled with the health of Heaven, 
and know that his very pen was a health-resort — 
why, that old Seer of God had no house but 
the open skies of Patmos. No wonder his words 
burn sick hearts and minds like an electric wire. 
The IMonroes all come to dine with us to-night, 
and Stephen is to play some of the Passion mu- 
sic. There is a fire on the lawn : I am go- 
ing out to get its scent now. 



CXXXII. 



April 2, 1900. 
The year clasps another child unto its bosom 
and calls it April. The birds welcome it with 
carols ; the brooks and the w4nd and the trees 
are rejoicing : a million sunbeams kneel and touch 
the swaddling-clothes with congratulations. 
The air is soft and sweet on the hills this morn- 
ing, Wallie, and the music of the Monastery 
bells beats it into many fragrances. How full 
the old fields were of bluebirds, as I walked ! 
As if the sky had fallen. A sight that I would 
rather see than the Paris Exposition, with the 
loneliness and desolation of its crowds of peo- 
ple. Here in the fields is the very sweetest sense 
of companionship, and I am never lonely. 
I wish you could see the mountains now ! The 
harshness Is gone, no trace of snow^ nor 
the barren woods — the morning has spiritu- 
alized it all : the towering heights are like 



212 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

a pale turquoise veil let down from heaven. 
Sunny Gables is warm with Spring light this 
morning, and there is a sense of unbroken calm 
there on which the world can't intrude. The 
trains whirl by, the whistles screech, the clam- 
ouring of voices breaks the air — but in the en- 
vironment of that old house, with its clean wind- 
swept woods, and russet avenues touched with 
daffodil gold from the flying clouds — the peace 
is unbroken, the peace which passeth understand- 
ing. It touches the peevish, fretful life with 
its miracle of health. I stood, in my walk, under 
the hemlocks where the night had taken shelter, 
and the old Indian creek sang the very same 
song that it learned as it lay In the arms of 
Creation, and through the dust and mystery 
of the ages has carolled ever since, and it sang, 
as though it were a fresh Inspiration ; and I 
listened as If I were the first mortal that had 
ever been entranced by Its soothing melodies. 
But what chords of song, of man's invention, 
do not tire men at times? 



CXXXIII. 



April 3, 1900. 
I was up at 4 : 30 this morning, Wallie, and 
saw the stars put on their vesture of light In- 
visible to meet the day. That old plane tree 
that has stood so stark all Winter, and through 
whose ghastly boughs last Summer's leaves 
sobbed in the storms, a robin sat there and be- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 213 

gan his glorious song at 5 ; and though the world 
is filled with day, he still cries : ''Cheer up !" 
I heard his first note and was glad : and when 
I had listened half an hour, it was just as new; 
and even now I am listening and feel that his 
next note will be entirely new — something never 
heard before. I know that some would be driven 
mad by it, but such men are blasphemers. The 
Monastery was all open yesterday, and the lawns 
were fresh and green; with all the leaves raked 
up and burnt, leaving that soft blue haze of 
smoke in the air, and the smell that the woodman 
loves. The incense of the perished leaves ; it 
is sweet even in death. I sat with the Abbot 
an hour, and read an article on Paris, from 
a magazine. Mrs. Bruce brought us a cup of 
coffee, and the sunny bronze of the Equator 
steamed from the dainty cup, as we sipped it. A 
robin on the lawn clattered about it : I think 
he wanted a sip, too. I was at Monksrest again, 
and heaven was unfolding from the morning- 
glory buds as of old ; Annunciation lilies, too, 
sang Our Lady's Hymn, Magnificat, as the 
lightning of the sunbeams smote their breasts. 
The air was rich and heavy with their odours. 
All the snow of the wintry desolate hills is drawn 
and concentrated and softened into this miracle 
of blossoms. As I strolled with Stephen Mon- 
roe through Caltha, a honey-bee touched her 
harp among the dusty catkins, and I think the 
golden buds beneath the sods will be compelled 
to rise and open the door of their hearts unto 
the music ere the week be gone, and if you 
wander thither next Sunday — well. 



214 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

CXXXIV. 

April 4, 1900. 
I went and sat long time yesterday in the 
old mill grounds, Wallie, and contrasted its 
busy past with to-day. How still it is ! A squir- 
rel scolds in the ruins — strangely out of place 
it seems in the mournful hush, instinct ought 
to teach him that he is a disturber of the peace. 
A moth, just risen from its grave-clothes, drifts 
dreamily on the light, showing buff and crim- 
son against the sky. And what a world of ac- 
tivity once was here ! From morning till night, 
and from night till morning chimneys blazed ; 
and furnaces glowed with molten iron ; saws and 
belts and flying wheels did the behests of men 
that sought wealth ; hundreds of men and boys 
toiled and sweat for daily bread — now all is 
waste and crumbling and decay. A few short 
years agone, and furnaces burned like Vesuvius 
— now, in the broken plaster and brick, the icicles 
of Winter gleam, and. the dews of Summer morn- 
ings flash trembling rainbow splendours on the 
dust and nothingness. Gone the wealth, the 
power, the work, the music of machinery, the 
lives that wasted muscle and brain and heart! 
Atropos cut the thread ; Death cried : "They 
are mine !" Oblivion has drawn all within the 
compass of a handful of dust. It is night ! But 
ere the month be gone, a million Spring blos- 
soms will cry : " 'TIs Day !" The Day when 
all the lost souls of men shall live again. The 
Master sits on the porch, as I write; taking a: 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 215 

bath In the sunshine and elixir of youth. The 
fire on the hearth glows and burns, and sends 
out tongues of flame to sting the air with the 
fragrance of the logs. A peach-tree near the 
fire-place has lost all fear of cold, and the soft 
faces of a few first blossoms look fearlessly 
toward the sun — though a sagacious crow thinks 
they have made a mistake. I hope not. Mrs. 
Bruce is coming over the ridge, and I know 
her arms are full of daffodils, for I see a gleam 
of pale gold like the Star. 



cxxxv. 



April 5, 1900. 
A great company of sumachs with their torches 
went last night to look young April in the face, 
Wallie ; and they came away glad and rejoicing, 
all the way of the woods lighted Avith their 
fires. They have more courage even than the 
dauntless meadow-lark, all through the death 
and desolation of the year. They are as glo- 
rious now, as when the. October sunsets scat- 
tered flame. How indelible the colours ! Like 
the blue of character. I thought of our work- 
man passing Brow-wait at 6 this morning; and 
what a triumphal progress his walk over the 
mountains is ! Rome gave triumphal proces- 
sions to but few, and gave them with niggard 
hand. The thousands that rent the air with 
shouts of acclaim and victory and patriotism 
were envious — yes, mad with hatred of the men 
who wore the dictator's crown, and assassin 



2i6 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

knives lurked In the stealth — but In this time, 
the humblest son of toil may pass through the 
length, the breadth, the depth, the height of Na- 
ture's pageant splendours of hills and woods and 
fields — and all the glory of colouring that spreads 
rainbows at his feet, all the majestic choruses 
of the winds, the roar of the waters, the songs 
of birds, the fragrances of the air, the 
wealth of flowers that look with God's pure eyes 
Into the depths of men's souls — it's all the low- 
liest child's that e'er was bom. God's triumphal 
progress for all ! Pity that the multitudes of 
men can't know and realize and take it unto them- 
selves. The gifts that a bluet can bestow are 
greater in value than all the world's ambitions. 
I went to the Monastery for Evensong, yesterday, 
and Stephen sang Our Lady's Hymn. All the 
hill folk were there, and we took the Abbot and 
Mrs. Bruce back to the cabin with us for sup- 
per. Convallaria has found some Calthas. Just 
think of that ! Their gold In the heart is worth 
more than gold in the pocket, says the old In- 
dian mother. 



CXXXVI. 



April 6, 1900. 
A robin In the very highest tree began at 
5, Wallie, to carol the coming of the King — The 
Light. It was the old tree that all Winter long 
sobbed and wailed in the desolations of the 
storms ; but now, it remembereth no more the 
anguish, for joy that another Spring is born 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 217 

into the world. Men forget so soon; it is nec- 
essary for Nature to proclaim over and over 
again life and resurrection from the shivered 
graves. The Master is gone out to the green- 
houses, drawn by the gold of the daffodils. Mrs. 
IMcDonald is sipping a cup of coffee, as she sits 
in the sunshine of the south porch, reading a 
letter from Philip. J'amie is blathering with 
the ducks on the lawn — they don't approve of 
Jamie. They ate all the bean vines in the gar- 
den last Fall, and Jamie made some cursory ob- 
servations that the modest waddlers can't forget. 
Mrs. McDonald said : "Ye micht have staid at 
home and looket after your beans." Stephen 
Monroe came early with the mail, came just 
as we were going in to breakfast. "Now, ye 
ne'er-do-weel," said our good mother, "ye will 
stay, and that settles it." And who could re- 
sist such eloquence as that? We had a broiled 
shad and muffins, and the boy drove home di- 
rectly afterwards. I would have gone with 
him, but Harry is coming at 10 for me to help 
him with his Latin. I sit at the window that 
gives that one little glimpse of the railroad : back 
of the road are the fields of grain, and further 
beyond are the woods and sunny gables warm 
in the April light. A group of boys go past the 
window on the track at 4 o'clock in the evening, 
and I call them my Four o'clocks, wondering, 
as I see them go by, whether, like the flower after 
which I call them, their lives will shed fra- 
grance on the world's night. They have it 
in their power to ban and curse : or to heal, 
assuage and soothe and bless. Man has such 



2i8 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Infinite power ! Cardinal Brook is enhaloed over 
with rainbow mist in the sunshine, and all the 
rocks are moist, and the lichens shine with their 
full luxuriance and beauty, and all the mosses 
are like soft velvet glistening with pearls. I 
wish I could send you a breath of its health, to 
clear your shop of its gloom and dust. The Mas- 
ter brought in an armful of daffodils, and they 
glow on my desk like stars. It is lo o'clock 
and Harry has just come. 



CXXXVII. 



April io, 1900. 
I heard a robin just now, Wallie, tell a crow 
that there will be snow a foot deep within forty- 
eight hours. I wonder on what he bases his pre- 
diction? The Master smiled, and thinks with the 
weather-wise crow that the red-breast has been 
taking lessons in ignorance from the Weather 
Bureau. The sky is a November grey and looks 
like Winter. Who would think that the mil- 
lion weight of blossoms is back of all this cold, 
pushing it out of the domain of Spring, crowd- 
ing it into the abyss of past toil and suffering! 
I sat this morning and watched the men go to 
their work. I thought, too, how so many speak 
and write of the curse of labour ; but it was no 
curse, until the old snake in the Garden stung 
man's mind and heart with disobedience to God. 
The rest of Heaven which the toiling race ex- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 219 

pects does not mean idleness ; even In the first 
cycle of man's life here on earth he had his 
appointed work. And The Christ who prom- 
ised men rest led the busiest life the world has 
ever known; there were occasions when He had 
not time to eat, so the Gospel tells us. It is 
human selfishness and greed that now make work 
a slavery : but when Capital and Labour shall 
have become a community of interests, through 
the Brotherhood taught by the Incarnate God, 
then shall come that new Heaven and that new 
Earth which the Seer of Patmos foretold. There 
will be time then to strike off the chains of the 
shop, the mill, the field, the money market, the 
counter of trade, the student's desk — and the 
enslaved will go out among the hills to find health 
and life among the trees and the blossoms. The 
man in Genesis who said : "I have enough, my 
brother," I think him one of the grandest char- 
acters in the whole Bible history. Who can say 
it to-day? Sunny Gables is sombre this morn- 
ing, and no brilliancy of light searching the 
woods. Still the Spring is advancing every- 
where; there is a deeper red in the maple buds 
than yesterday, and the grass has lost much of 
the Winter's brown. Mrs. Bruce is here as I 
write; the boys of the school will leave to-mor- 
row for the Easter recess, and the good mother 
is glad. I found a bit of delicious cress in the 
brook yesterday, and Mrs. McDonald gave it to 
us for supper with mayonnaise dressing. 



220 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



CXXXVIII. 

April 12, 1900. 

The hills are wrapped about with mists this 
morning, Wallie, and a quiet rain drips from 
them, making all the air sweet. Every tree is 
silvery with rain-drops into which the light has 
breathed a tremulous beauty. It is a proph- 
ecy of the blossoms that will weigh them down 
ere the month be gone. The cabin is all open, 
every door and window, so that we lose none 
of the mystery of sweetness that drifts round — 
a visitant from the clouds of heaven. The crows 
held a convention in the old plane tree at 5 a. m. 
and the assembly broke up in much admired dis- 
order, for an enthusiastic bird just twenty-one 
to-day invited them all to a birthday-feast. Far 
away in Century Swamp there is a horse that has 
ended all his equestrian labours. They are all 
gone, and not a crow will sing while the sym- 
posium lasts. I went out, after the whistles had 
called men to their work, and all the valley rang 
and resounded with music : the voices of the 
world's labour make no discords — it is singing 
its way up again unto God, and there shall be 
no more curse. 

We are just in from Mass : it is 8 : 30 a. m. 
The chapel was crowded ; all the hill folk had 
left their work at this busv time to come to this 
Maundy Thursday Eucharist, the day of its 
institution. There were men and women there 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 221 

who had made a sacrifice to come, and Easter will 
be more precious to them. All our boys were 
present, even Philip and Harold and Herbert, 
and Arthur Clark came up from the city for it. 
The Altar was a bank of calla lilies and roses, 
and a very wilderness of soft lights ; but all will 
be swathed in black for Evensong and the Day 
of Sorrows. We brought Harry home with us 
for a cup of coffee, and we are going out for a 
quiet hour afterward. Yesterday, Stephen and 
I were out beyond Century Swamp, and saun- 
tered into an old house, drawn by the bright 
mosses that blossomed on the roof. We sat a 
while in the decayed dining-room which the 
sunbeams would not leave in desolation. In 
the midst of the room was a rude oaken table, 
that, too, covered with moss, typical of the fam- 
ily that once was gathered there, but now gath- 
ered unto "that far more exceeding and eternal 
weight of Glory," Halle met us, and had his 
first bit of Arbutus. He showed us a bank that 
will be alive with it in a few days. 



CXXXIX. 



Good Friday, April 13, 1900. 
The veil of mist still enfolds the hills, Wallie, 
and the whole land is sweet from the warm rain. 
What a difference the last twenty-four hours have 
made ! The willows will be great clouds of gold, 
wdien the sun comes out ; and all the maples are 
tipped with points of fire. The brook dashes 



222 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

by under the hemlocks white with steam, and 
singing its full-hearted carols of Spring. I wan- 
dered out to Caltha Swamp, yesterday, to talk 
with the trees a while, and to listen to the mu- 
sic of the drops of rain. The moss is strewn 
thick with the little, sticky buds that served all 
Winter long as a covering to the leaves and the 
blossoms of a coming year — the world is full 
of shivered graves to-day, Nature's eloquent pro- 
test that there is no Death. On my return, I 
passed through the old mill grounds — and in 
the midst of the lowering clouds, the plashing 
rain and the chill, there was the comfort of a 
fire which some tramps had kindled under the 
shelter of the ruins. I spoke to them, and they 
answered me with courtesy: even these men re- 
turn kindness for kindness. The fire warmed 
their bodies ; and the Fire of God's Spirit will 
at last burn their hearts with the love that on 
this day mastered the world in that long ago, 
as He reigned on Calvary. So many of these 
poor wanderers seem outside the fold of Human 
Brotherhood, but He stands at the door of their 
hearts, pleading to be taken in as their Guest, 
for in the democracy of His vast love all are prec- 
ious. How would you like to have a red-breast 
come, and perch in your dusty shop, and drop 
a bluet at your feet ? It would change the whole 
day for you, would it not? It takes so little 
of the world's loveliness and beauty to lighten 
the world's toil. The Master sends his love and 
blessing, and the Easter salutation. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 223 

CXL\ 

April 14, 1900. 

It is Easter Even, Wallie ; wearing on toward 
sunset. It has been a precious, quiet day. I 
have always felt that this day of all the year 
must be kept in silence. Let a man get by him- 
self, and refrain from talk. It will strengthen 
him, and that Grave in the Garden where He 
slept will speak with a Niagara crash of convic- 
tion. They are all home — the boys, and will be 
here to-morrow. Herbert was with me in the 
woods at 10 this morning for Hepaticas, and we 
found them thick under the golden-russet leaves. 
I am alone at the cabin now : the Master and Mrs. 
McDonald are out for a drive. The westering 
sun makes long shining avenues on the hills : 
the robins drench all the clear air with their 
songs : the grass is a soft green of gold ; a for- 
sythia on the lawn is thick with its yellow blos- 
soms. In the library where I sit, there are Eas- 
ter lilies and daffodils and dishes of violets, and 
In the presence of their loveliness I am exalted 
unto a finer consciousness. 

6 ; 45 p. M. I am just in from Evensong. There 
was a good attendance, and no end of Easter 
lilies. I am in love with the words of The Old 
Book which read : ''Aly beloved is gone down 
Into His garden to gather lilies." Mrs. McDon- 
ald has supper ready, a broiled shad, a salad of 
water-cress, a cup of coffee, muffins and sponge 
cake. Philip and Halle, Herbert and Harry are 
here to enjoy it with us, and we are all so glad 



224 Mountain Walks cif a Recluse. 

to have them. The Master says It is an elixir 
of perpetual Spring to him. The Kimball boys, 
by the Master's invitation, are coming to spend 
Easter Tuesday and Wednesda}^ Dear Mrs. 
McDonald' throws up her hands with : ''The 
whole gang!" 

Easter morning, 9 o'clock. I give you the 
Easter salutation, Wallie : ''The Christ Is Risen !" 
And the day Is glorious with gold. We were 
all at the 6 : 30 Mass at the Monastery, and all 
our boys were there. The attendance was large, 
and the Holy Place filled with sunrise and lil- 
ies and roses. And the woods ! Every nerve 
throbs with the delight that comes from the 
Hepatlcas, the Spring beauties, the erythroniums, 
the blood-roots, the ferns and the lichens. The 
whole store of freshness and loveliness and new 
life and fragrance sinks deep into our hearts, in- 
spiring and demanding Alleluias of worship. 
Your prophecy of March 15th came true, for 
Harold has just brought In a bluet with its Eas- 
ter salutation. And who would dare to look 
into a bluet's face, and say there is no Heaven 
after death? All the cabin Is open to the sunny 
weather, and from the soul-depths of the lilies 
drifts the revelation that with Him the whole 
world Is risen. Just hear the robins shake out 
their gold coins of song! And that reminds me 
that the Master has a book for you, on the birds, 
when you come to see us. Oh, the hills, the 
fields, the woods, the blossoms, and the glad 
faces of men cry aloud, with that Eternal weight 
of Joy, unto the Risen Christ Who proclaims : 
"Behold, I make all things new !" 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 225 

It is now 6 p. M. We are on the porch en- 
joying the robins. Mrs. McDonald gave us a 
dinner worthy of her hospitahty. All the boys 
were here, except Stephen, and he will take 
coffee and toast with us at 7. We had two 
roast turkeys and a roast of beef, and spinach 
from the green-house. Philip brought the dessert 
from his green-houses, strawberries, the re- 
nowned Brandywines. Harry brought a box of 
daffodils, and they shed their radiance on us 
during the feast. It has been a most precious 
day to us all, and we are prepared now in the 
calm of eventide to rest. Stephen is coming 
over Bluet Ridge, and Convallaria with him. He 
has had her out to get a smell of the new grass 
and the woods. 



CXLL 

April 18, 1900. 
The clouds still drop fragrances, and the hills 
are wrapped in mists, but the robins chant their 
clarion lays of courage, and the russet fields and 
meadows are bright with the first tender fresh- 
ness of the Spring. How soft the new grass — 
there is health from just looking over its wide 
calm of beauty. Every cluster of clover holds 
an extravagance of emeralds on its bosom, and 
the brook is margined with a loveliness that 
burns its eternity of years into the first days 
of youth. A great surge of glorious promise 
swells from the sod, and its burden to mankind 
is that all things are become new. The old 



226 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Earth clasps another Spring-time unto its breast, 
wrapped in the swaddHng clothes of pearl mists 
and blossoms — and the sunbeams, with splen- 
dours of lightnings breaking from their faces, 
protest that the shivered graves are become high- 
ways to Heaven. Death will come with a com- 
passion of love in its eyes and give back the lost 
babe to its mother; the mad brains, the tortured 
nerves, the aching hearts, the wasting strength 
shall touch the hem of His Health — and there 
shall be no more tears, nor sorrow, nor crying; 
the former things are passing away! It's the 
burden of every song of the birds, the brooks, 
the winds ; the meaning of every swelling tree 
and blossom ; the message from every Altar that 
uplifts The Eternal Host, and pleads to the 
lost Race that Christ is Risen! I went out to 
Monksrest, and every blossom was holding its 
sapphire chalice, ready to be filled with sunshine. 
The old gardener has sat so long among the 
morning-glories, one seems nearer Heaven from 
being in his presence. The very fragile blos- 
soms of the dim woods are a lever that lifts the 
ruined world up to the Great White Throne. The 
Master sends his love ; Mrs. McDonald says, 
get a life-preserver and come to the hills. 



CXLH. 



April 19, 1900. 
The storm is yielding to the sunshine, and the 
hills are radiant with translucent mists. The 
west wind drives the clouds before its chariot, 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 227 

and the birds swell the chorus of a triumphal 
progress. I found the rocks alive with Saxi- 
fraga, in my walks yesterday, and, here and there, 
clusters of dicentra — white-hearts, were in blos- 
som. White-hearts! A beautiful name for a 
flower: appropriate, too, for the child on the 
mother's breast secure, and appropriate, too, for 
a Manhood hereafter, when the great out-pour- 
ing of the Spirit of Christ shall have made stained 
souls as white as the Light. I sat and enjoyed 
the lichened rocks, as they dripped with the rain, 
their crests all white with the saxifraga bloom : 
and I thought that as the hard, impenetrable rock 
had yielded to the influences of the plant, so the 
most hardened and obdurate of mankind will, at 
last, yield to Him who loved the flowers, and, 
in His great Sermon on the Mount, drew Men's 
attention to the lilies. "It is the Day when this 
Nation was born," said the Master at the break- 
fast-table, and, looking up, I saw that he had 
hung out the Flag. Then my thoughts went back 
to Lexington and Paul Revere's Ride that 19th 
of April, 1775. As he sped through the forest 
road of sleepy flowers, the stars on high prom- 
ised a field of stars to commemorate the heroism 
of that Day. Far off: on the East the red bars 
of light stamped Its deathless sunrise on the 
National ensign that was won through the 
poured-out blood of martyr hosts ; and God sent 
down the blue to transfigure the character of 
soldiers and statesmen who died to make men 
Free. Thus we have the Flag, and he who loves 
it, loves the work of God, and will not go too 
far astray from right. The willows are a great 



228 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

choir of music this morning, for their old hearts 
are yielding honey to the bees. I have been out 
with Harry to the mountains back of Monksrest. 
A trip we planned some time ago for his birth- 
day: he is 17. It was an Arbutus quest; and we 
were successful, too, found it in great abundance 
— its lovely apple-green leaves and starry onyx 
flowers. A'nd the Hepaticas ! I never saw so many ; 
breaking up through the sunset of the russet 
leaves ; nestling close to the rocks and soften- 
ing them with velvety dimples : and far up on 
the crags they gleamed— an open window in 
Heaven. How much higher those hills seem than 
f>urs ! The very eyes weary of the climb, and 
these bodies of flesh find themselves confronted 
by the impossible. The lichens make them look 
so ashen ; and I am whirled back through the 
burning cycles unto the time when the travail- 
pangs of Earth were buried 'neath these eternal 
obelisks. Egypt's wonder of Pyramids seem but 
a child's toys, as I look upon this workmanship 
of indomitable Power. I take Harry home with 
me for supper, and Mrs. McDonald is burning 
seventeen candles on a cake for him. 



CXLHI. 



April 20, 1900. 
I like the Bible expression for morning — ''the 
Spring of the day," it takes the harshness out 
of the Winter, and makes the Spring-time more 
delightful. There is hardly a sound as I write, 
I think the birds must be taking breakfast. We 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 229 

find a bit of fire a comfort, for the morning is 
cool : there is a glow about the fire that reminds 
one of the past Winter, and we seem to have 
reached the dividing line between the old frosts 
and the Summer glory of the hills. I found 
the woods full of lindera in my walks yesterday, 
every bush glowing with dust of stars ; and the 
brooks wxre so clear, and the grass fresh on the 
margins, and the sand was like shifting grains 
of silver — as it lay in the deep, cool pools. I 
found some men fishing, and was glad that I 
did not have to do it : and I suppose they thought 
how foolish for a man to poke among dead roots 
and ferns. I have no doubt they pitied the 
ignorance that could not tell a perch from a 
sunfish. The boys are coming back to-day ; some 
are back, and as full of saucy health as the robins. 
I think all the birds are glad, for the trees around 
the Monastery are full of song, and there was 
hardly a sound there Easter Day — they all came 
to the cabin for companionship. Mrs. AIcDon- 
ald says the "poor silly fules trust the laddies." 
The Cardinal has been so broken and swollen 
that I could not cross it, and I have not been 
in the bright fields beyond since the rain. It has 
kept me within a narrow bound, and I fret under 
the restraint. We always want what is beyond, 
and as it is possible for men to attain unto their 
ideals, why all will at last reach Heaven, though 
now infinitely beyond their grasp and ken. 
There is no repulsive sight in the things that 
reveal the death of last year's glorious life and 
strength. The dead leaves to-day are touched 



230 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

with dew-drops so dashed with splendours that 
the eyes cannot look upon the brightness. 

I have been going from time to time of late 
to talk with that worthy courteous gentleman at 
the express office, and the walk takes me across 
a little square of grass that used to be a lovely 
garden. It is all open to the public now ; but 
years ago it lay deep in retirement, and there 
was no intrusion of the rude world on its beauty. 
I never cross there that memory does not give 
back the scent of lavender ; and I forget the 
ceaseless throng of souls that care more for this 
world's wealth than for the Glory of God. I 
see again the long sunshiny days of June, and the 
purple lilies, and the corners of lunaria, and the 
soothing shadows, and the silence that echoes 
with the songs of the thrush. It's all gone, and 
with it just so much of Heaven is gone out of 
the lives of men. The shad-trees are in full 
blossom now, and I will send you some with 
this. 



CXLIV. 

May I, 1900. 

THE HILLS OF APRIL. 

I climbed the hills to-day and worshiped there. 
The million bluets flung their turquoise light: 
The million wind-flowers stung the enraptured 
sight : 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 231 

God's Garden — Eden — lives again, as fair. 

Health vivifies this resurrection air : 

God's voice is in the winds that surge the height : 

His Presence in the flower-strewn aisles and 
white ; 

His Heaven drifts round and blinds with splen- 
dours rare. 

I feel that Life's transfigured. Earth sinks down. 

I climb to heights foreshadowings of The Crown. 

The bursting woods with rainbow light are 
stained — 

A new apocalypse of colour. I have gained, 

By toiling up the steeps, the Patmos Vision : 

The clouds are torn from off That Life Elysian. 



CXLV. 



May 2, 1900. 
I spent yesterday, May Day, in the great 
cathedral of the hills, Wallie. In every place 
where the snowflakes whirled two months ago, 
to-day there is no end of blossoms. The bluets 
have fulfilled the prophecies — and no power, nor 
genius, nor inspiration of men has ever given 
any glorious temple a floor of such enameled 
mosaic-work. As I reached Brow-wait, the 
wind pulled out every stop of the mighty organ 
of the woods, and rolled over the hihs in a great 
deluge of music. In the air that quivered and 
flashed w^ith dust of stars, the bees made songs 
that oppressed me with their sweet sleepiness. 
The hills that were solid walls of blackness and 
ice, so short a time since, are softened now into 



232 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

a mist of light — a great impalpable veil of green 
and gold melting into mystery: you can't help 
the feeling that it may vanish out of sight as you 
look upon it. I sat where the polypodium ferns 
made towers of living rock ; and the aspidium 
that we are so glad to call the Christmas fern, 
the lovely evergreen that heard last December's 
Gloria in Excelsis and looked with its adoring 
beauty into the face of That Child — this fern 
I sat and watched, and its fronds unfolded vis- 
ibly, like rolls of prophecy burning with all the 
majesty and the splendour of summer. I did 
not know that the Abbot was near until roused 
by his ^'Benedicite." I walked with him to the 
Monastery, and saw Mrs. Bruce and the boys. 
They were kicking a foot-ball — the boys, I mean 
— and I am sure that they have energy enough 
tO' lift their day and generation upward. I went 
with the Abbot into the library, and while a 
hearth-fire crooned snatches of a last- Winter's 
song, we sipped a cup of Mrs. Bruce's delicious 
coffee as we looked out on the lawns all pink 
with peach blossoms. I contrast the ice-freighted 
limbs of March with the soft melting haze of 
colour to-day. The bees are thick among them, and 
their seolian-like strains are tinctured with honey. 
They are the loveliest pink in the world, and 
as I look at them, they sink into my very life- 
depths and sting me with a buoyancy of youth. 
We all enjoyed your week with us more than I 
can express ; but you are gone now, and the 
dear Kimball boys are gone, and whether I be 
lonely or not — well, I will go out and see what 
the dear bluets have to say about it. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 233 

CXLVL 

May 3, 1900. 

The wood's cathedral floors are bright 

With bluets — dust of stars. 
Spring makes a progress through the world 

And veils its waste of scars. 

"Hosanna !" Cry the awakened trees, 

And wave their snowy palms. 
'Hosannas from the Arbutus breathe 

Through all the woodland balms. 

Where snowflakes swathed the world in death, 
The flowers now hold their court, 

So human suffering yields to palms : 
Man's anguish time is short. 

I saw a bit of note-paper float from 
a young man's hand, as he walked ahead 
of me on the Way of the Winds, and 
on it were written the words that begin this 
note. I handed it to him, on overtaking 
him, and he asked me to read his verses. He 
is one of the young men of the school, and has 
just returned from home where he was kept a 
prisoner long weeks from typhoid fever. Philip 
has been his friend and greatly interested in him, 
taking him into his own house where he will re- 
main until the close of the term. He called 
himself well, but he looks as frail as the anemones 
that fill all the russet avenues. He is a lover of 
the woods, though, and a tongue of the far-oflf 



234 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Fire of Pentecost has inspired his heart and his 
pen. His poem quivers with the music of Spring. 
Hke the dreamy hills all round with the pulses 
of the new year's heat. I sat with him on a fallen 
tree, and he seemed made of such fine mould, 
as the peach blossoms showered round him the 
onyx of their soft loveliness. I trust that his 
life will never turn the Hosannas into ^'Crucify !" 
There is, too, a quiet strength about him that 
makes me believe he will cut down palm branches 
from his spiritual victories and strew them in 
the Way of The Christ's triumphal march. It 
was so restful among the birds, and the carols 
of the brook, and the turquoise-emerald mist of 
the bluets, and the pink buds of the oaks that 
have taken the place of the leagues of russet 
fire that made the wide amphitheatre of the hills 
seem so warm through all the cyclone rage of 
the storms. The sunshine on the grey trunks 
made fringes of light that touched the nerves 
with restfulness, and the new grass vnth its dan- 
delions seemed like velvet pinned to the earth 
by knots of gold. I hope you will like the poem : 
and on Sunday you will meet its author, Clarence 
King. 



CXLVIL 



May 4, 1900. 

The thunders crashed among the hills last night, 
Wallie, and the terrible lightnings wrote on the 
blackness that the realm of the Winter has been 
given to the victorious Summer. What a weird 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 235 

fascination there was in the scene ! The trees 
tossed in the furious wind, and their blossoms 
whirled like the lost souls in Dante's vision.^ 
Ghosts danced on the foaming waters of Cardinal 
Brook, and the rocks of Polypodium Ferns blazed 
with fire from the clouds. All night long the 
storm shrieked at the windows, and the branches 
of the hemlocks beat upon the roof. This morn- 
ing, though, that voice of old has commanded "a 
great calm," and all the cyclone fury has gone 
out of Nature's heart. Nothing but the dreamy 
loveliness that early blossoming May gives unto 
the v/orld. We have an hearth-fire, and it is a 
Winter-time of falling blossoms. The lawn is 
strewn with white flowers from the shad bloom 
and the cherry trees ; and, in the chill, we wrap 
our cloaks about us, finding the fire a delicious 
bit of comfort for an hour. Your new acquaint- 
ance — the woodman — had a wonderful walk, with 
the Bluets on every side showing him all the 
glory of Heaven, For my walk I went down to 
the express office again and had a talk on ferns 
with my friend the agent there. The old garden 
of which I told you was being used for a ball 
field, and I hurried on — it seemed a desecration. 
It was sold for an enormous sum of money, I 
know, and its value has increased ; but it is a time 
when the trusts fatten, and monopoly strengthens, 
and pocketbooks are stuffed, and the Eagles of 
the IJnited States' mint scream to besotted world- 
lings ! ''Behold your God !" On my way back I 
sat and listened to the cow-bells, and the Dog- 
woods above me were softening their hard black 
knots into white shining crosses for the Ascen- 



236 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

sion-tide. Near Convallaria's old cabin a robin 
blathered over a Pyrus Japonica. I think that the 
red blossoms and the red-breast drew each other. 



CXLVIII. 

May 10, 1900. 
THE LOSS OF THE FIRST FLOWERS. 

A threnody sobs on the air 

For days that could not last. 
A minor fills May's chords of song. 

The earliest flowers have passed. 

The soft Hepaticas are gone, 

The Arbutus bloom is shed, 
The blood-root shone its transient hour — 

The woods mourn for their dead. 

They stood like angels 'mong the hills, 
The shad-flowers scattering light; 

The splendour all is past ; to Heaven 
Their ghosts have taken flight. 

Take courage ! Spring will break again 

From Winter's waste and rack. 
And Man who yearns for perished youth 

Will get lost Eden back. 

I told Clarence what you said about the fall- 
ing shad-flowers, and he put it into verse, as 
above, while he sat with me at Monksrest among 
the many graves of blossoms. We had 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 237 

just returned from the acres of Calthas 
that burnish the swamp — not with the gold 
that makes men brutish, but the spiritual 
gold that purifies and exalts and trans- 
figures life. The shad-flowers were like visions 
of Angels, indeed, through all the hills, just as 
the lad has written ; but right above where we 
sit, their pink and grey satin leaves unfold in 
the sunshine, so beautiful and soft in their ra- 
diance. The lad by my side knows nothing 
about lost youth : but oh, it is so eloquent of 
meaning to me who am on my way to the Win- 
ter Solstice. One would have no knowledge 
of perished youth — its loveliness and enthusiasm 
and strength and splendour, without the weight 
of years. I take it, though, that the very yearn- 
ing is a prophecy : we will get back that which 
gives the Hepaticas their loveliness, that which 
we love with a feeling akin to worship in the 
porous, light-absorbing petals of the daffodils. 
Ah, me ! the million wrinkles and the parchment- 
shrivelled face! But Man shall wash in the 
Jordan of Death, and his flesh shall come again 
like the flesh of a little child. The brook that 
carols at my feet, the oaks, the hills, the ledges 
of rock are strong in unchanging youth : it is 
this poor life of ours alone that is weighed down 
with infirmities. The old gardener of Monks- 
rest is coming: he stops and has a kindly word 
w^ith us. He is gone, but left a trail of fra- 
grance, for he had an armful of carnations and 
daffodils. They thrilled me with their ineffable 
beauty, carried me up to the heights of a spir-i 
itual ecstasy, The lad sends his love. 



238 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



CLXIX. 

May II, 1900. 
Stephen Monroe came to Ageweight this morn- 
ing, WalHe, and went into the kitchen for a 
moment to see Mrs. McDonald. He told her, 
as he left the store, that there was ice nearly 
a foot thick last night : and when she asked 
where, she dropped a milkpan in her astonish- 
ment — he answered that it was in his moth- 
er's refrigerator. Then he remembered sudden- 
ly that he must see the Master in the study : 
but the milkpan hurried after him to learn par- 
ticulars, and it was exhilarating to hear the good 
madame laugh. I asked the lad if he were go- 
ing to the Paris Exposition, and he answered 
no. He had read that the rates were $10 to 
$20 a day: and, as he could not and would not 
pay that amount of money and be wretched in 
a hotel, he would spend the Summer here among 
the hills environed round with all the Glory of 
Heaven. I went to Monksrest yesterday and 
spent an hour with the old gardener among the 
flowers. As we talked together, Mr. and Mrs. 
Gregory Livingstone came to get some carna- 
tions for a marriage. The little lad was with 
them and I gave him some chocolates. He then 
honoured me with his latest acquisition in learn- 
ing, but got "Old King Cole" and "Bo-peep" 
mixed up, somewhat to the confusion of those 
two noted persons. His story ran : 




/'■.«•".«,?' -3t;l.-;w*t!'a*SB?fir5LflBSH!JrS. 



Orig>inal hy John DeCamp. 

The Sentry-box at Monksrest. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 239 

''Old King Cole lost his merry old soul. 
Let him alone and he'll come home 
Dragging his soul behind him." 

I told him that I never heard it rendered bet- 
ter: he had touched it with a stroke of genius. 
When they had gone on their way, the botanist 
gave me a box of those divine purple lilies — 
depths of colour, rich, soft and a very mystery 
of fragrance. They transfigure one. I picked 
up a Bible that the worthy man had on the table 
in his sentry box, and he said to me : "The 
Old Book begins and ends with a garden and 
the Tree of Life, and it is more precious to me 
every day. I've read it ever since you were here 
that morning last February, and in particular 
that first chapter of S. Luke with its fine pic- 
turing of the hill country of Judea. It is a great 
comfort for quiet hours." I asked him if he 
were ever lonely, and he spread his hands to- 
ward the wide stretches of glory and said : 
"Lonely with all that !" And his face was like 
one inspired. 



CL. 

May 14, 1900. 
THE PINES AT MONKSREST. 

We sat beneath the pines whose years 

Embosomed centuries. 
Their balsam fragrances were stirred 

With soothing melodies. 



240 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

The winds that swelled their breasts were tHose 

^olian strains first heard, 
When Earth was wrapped in swaddling clothes, 

At God's creative word. 

Leagues, leagues of light all round: and hills — 

Green floods of shining seas, 
Where blossoming woods sail bearing freight 

Of song from birds and bees. 

O monarchs of the hills, engirt 

With glorious strength and life ! 
Ye teach the Eternal Health that reigns 

Beyond these years of strife. 

I went out with Clarence King, Wallie, and 
as we sat under the old pines at Monksrest, the 
gift of song stirred him, and he put on paper 
what I have written above. He Is getting well 
fast, and the pallor will soon be overspread with 
the ruddy bronze of health. We sat long time 
and gazed upon that impalpable sea to the south, 
where sunbeams and clouds of blossoms and 
choirs of bees drifted on the splendours of quiver- 
ing light. We went down into Whippoorwill Glen 
and found the purple clematis in blossom, run- 
ning all over the young lindens and the birches. 
Then we went into the old gardener's "vigil 
box," and after a kindly word he invited us out 
among his flowers. The tulips were a clearer 
brilliancy from contrast of apple blossoms all 
round the sacred retreat, and all the healing air 
was mellifluent with fragrances. And the blu- 
ets ! Dear blessed bluets dashing light, and har- 
monizing with the russet and the columbines 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 241 

and the grey rocks and the mosses ! There are 
no discords in Nature. It was hard to leave, 
and the boy himself found it so, for I had told 
him that a month hence the whippoorwills will 
make all the wild crags a very Via Dolorosa 
of songs in the hush. O bird, bird, into thy 
soul sang Chaos and Old Night ! As we passed 
the Cleft Rock, returning, the dear Abbot sat 
among the ferns, asleep in the quivering drowsi- 
ness, and the columbines nodded with him from 
sympathy. I know they were glad to have him 
there. We met Laurence Kent in the Glen, and 
walked with him to his home for an hour. He 
said he heard a whippoorwill last night for the 
first time while he was sitting with Harry in 
his little Summer-house under the crags. 



CLI. 

May 15, 1900. , 
I heard a knock at my window at 3 this morn- 
ing, Wallie. At first I thought it must be the 
wind among the apple blossoms, but it was Ste- 
phen Monroe who wanted me to go with him 
to Monksrest by the light of the stars. I went 
with him, of course ; and there, where the grass 
was heavy with dew that was crimson with the 
first flush of the east, we built a fire and made 
a cup of coiTee. As far as our eyes could 
reach, the woods were shadowy with wild-flow- 
ers, and sweet from the lilacs planted on the 
rocks — oh, so long ago. I thought how many 
times you and I had lain there in the scent of 



242 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

cinnamon roses in the sunsets of June, waiting 
for the dusk to filial! the woods with the songs 
of whippoorwills. The dear bird ! Its plaint 
is as pitiful as a child's sorrow. There was a 
heavy hush on the air, and night was slumbrous 
in the valley, and the youth of the coming day 
made wild racings through my blood. How soft 
the pale smoke that gave wings to the fire and 
carried it up to the paling stars ! We drank our 
coffee, and started back to the cabin where the 
robins were heralding the sunrise with songs, 
and waking the world from sleep. I wish you 
could come here and lie on the rocks that are 
as old as chaos : you would soon dream yourself 
unto a perfect rest. Convallaria found a pink 
orchid, and will save it for you — a beautiful pale 
onyx. I was at the Monastery for Evensong 
yesterday, and the Altar blossomed with the 
strong purple of the wild clematis like the blos- 
som that we found last Sunday. We have found 
it warm these last few days ; "presperous," our 
dusky friends In Florida would say. July came 
to pay his respects to the Queen. I trust he 
will not prolong his stay; we would not have 
the tulips stricken while they stand in worship, 
swinging their cenlsers of spiritual fire. The 
apple blossoms, too, would think it harvest time. 



CLII. 

May 16, 1900. 
July has gone back again, Wallie, and May 
is just herself and nothing more. Had the old 
Monarch of the Tropics staid longer, I fear the 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 243 

Queen had lost her throne. It is cool again, 
and the cabin doors and the windows are all 
open — we would not lose a breath of the fra- 
grances. The woods are all luminous with dog- 
wood blossoms now, and all the mountain ave- 
nues are snow white from apple blossoms, just 
as we said last February when weary of the 
snow. The porch toward Caltha Swamp hangs 
heavy with the purple clusters of wistaria, and 
the air is filled with the odours and the dreamy 
songs of the bees. The incorporeal life feasts 
on a spiritual vintage. Afteir this little talk 
with you, I am going out into Caltha Swamp, 
for I know that the pink moccasins are waiting 
for my homage, and the swamp all this side is 
just one vast stretch of pink and white azaleas. 
Convallaria has gone down to her old cabin for 
tulips. Halle Seton is with her, and has a 
basket full. He holds them towards me, and 
the sun lights up their polished black centres 
and shines through their crimson enamellings. 
Mrs. McDonald sits on the porch, jabbering 
back at the ducks, and I know that they under- 
stand it, every word. Mully is munching clover 
blossoms, and the dogs are watching her. They 
ask her Devonshire ladyship whether it be a quid 
or a cud that gives her such intense satisfaction. 
And her reply shows that she is not in the mood 
to discuss metaphysical subtleties. She answers 
them that she is no cynic. I wonder if the 
canines have any idea that Cynic Philosophy has 
reference to themselves? The Master sits look- 
ing on, the last number of *'The Fern Bulletin" 
in his hand: but he is not mindful of its claims 



244 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

just now — the dogs are demanding an audience. 
I suppose they want to have him decide the 
question of the Cynic Philosophy. PhiHp and 
Harold are home for the day, and to-night they 
and Harry and Laurence Kent and the two Kim- 
ball boys who are coming on the 3 : 30 p. m. 
train for that express purpose, all are going for 
a couple of hours to Monksrest to hear the 
whippoorwills. Mrs. Gardener prepares the 
lunch, and I am to provide a couple of lanterns. 
'"Iwa good lichts," Mrs. McDonald calls them. 
Can you not go with us? 



CLIII. 

May 17, 1900. 

We all went to Monksrest last night, Wallie, 
as I told you in my letter yesterday, and stayed 
there two hours in the haunts of the whippoor- 
wills. Night came from Atropos, and closed 
the book of the bright day with the seal of the 
sunset ; and then from the battlements of the 
dusk, the weird minstrels put Into song the mys- 
tery of the glistening dew-drops that lay on the 
grass like sheets of some far-off heavenly music. 

The hills are full of the scent of blossoms this 
morning, and all the house Is open, that we lose 
none of the odours. I wish they could be poured 
into every stuffy mill and office and factory, and 
men would then lift up their hearts a "sursum 
corda" in which Earth would count for less In 
their lives-— the sordid Earthy I mean. The effect 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 245 

of fragrance is so pronounced on our lives : I 
can understand the Scripture which says that 
God smelled the savour of Noah's sacrifice, and 
then gave the regenerated world a blessing. 

A very touching and beautiful thing has just 
occurred here at the cabin : a carriage drove up, 
and an old gentleman and his wife alighted and 
came and knelt before the Master of Ageweight 
for his blessing on their Fiftieth Wedding Day. 
He was a man of three score and ten and more 
when they first stood at God's Altar in their 
strength and loveliness half a century ago. 
He put a heavy ring upon the fourth fin- 
ger of her left hand to replace the first that was 
worn unto the veriest thread ; and when they 
drove away, they carried with them a box of bride 
roses in a perfection of beauty that they them- 
selves had not lost. I wish you could see a bed 
of white violets that I found yesterday ; the year 
has breathed into the snowflakes the breath of 
life and made them living souls. I found also 
a bed of senecio, and the dim corridors of the 
woods were filled with its golden light. How 
restful the depths of the shadows now ! And 
broken onlv bv the notes of the thrush that melt 
and tell that this is the year of jubilee. There is 
a scent of mint on the waters of the songful 
brook to-day, and the robin tastes critically. I 
think he remembers his all-Winter debauch on 
the China berries in the swamps of Florida. He 
does not believe in total abstinence. The cabin 
all send love to you, and the woods have their 
old blessing for you. 



246 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

CLIV. 

May 21, 1900. 

THE WHEAT-FIELDS. 

Night in her moon-beam chariot has fled, 
^oHan harp-strings tell of coming day. 
The oldest music of the world doth play 
On wheat-fields with their harvest gold over- 
spread. 
Prescient with thought of Eucharistic Bread, 
Each heavy head of grain doth bend and sway 
In adoration of the Agnus Dei 
On Whom The Church long ages blest has fed. 
The sun is risen! The fields are flushed with 

light : 
The sunbeams swing their censers from the 

height : 
The world's great heart, in every quivering chord. 
Is tuned to Christ by all the Heavens adored. 
These fields, transfigured with the golden grain, 
Foretell all souls transfigured. Christ shall reign ! 



CLV. 

May 22, 1900. 
The sun is started again on the great journey, 
Wallie, and the clouds scatter splendours round. 
How full the world of beauty and gladness and 
joy and health ! The thrushes and the robins 
sing as if there were no sickness, as if there 
could be none. In all Nature there is not a 
grave : last year's leaves have none, and the fallen 




Original by John DeCamp. 
STEPHEN MONROE AND HARRY PHILLIPS. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 247 

tree of the forest is covered with Hving moss and 
lichens. There is no sorrow in the song of the 
brook, as I stoop and dip my hands into its shin- 
ing music: and the world all round is prophetic 
of the time when men shall remember no more 
the anguish — and that will be Heaven. The cabin 
is all open — every door and window : and our 
ears — not only our ears but our inmost souls — 
are filled with the songs of the birds. We 
breathe the songs : there is a spiritual fragrance. 
A crow came yesterday to see if the com had 
sprouted, but found some in a pan, and made 
up his mind that he would not start gardening; 
and we are more than satisfied with his decision. 
Some three years ago to-day, I paused at a cot- 
tage to feast the rapt nerves of colour with the 
purple lilies that blossomed there, and a woman 
of great age — wearing the century mark — sat 
in the porch and invited me within. I talked with 
her of the glorious Life Above for which 
she longed, and she said to me : "It is 75 years 
to-day since I w^as married, and all whom I loved 
are there in the World Beyond." I passed again 
to-day, and her cottage is closed. She has passed 
from all these infirmities unto the Health that 
fails not ; she is with her own : she has looked 
upon the dear Christ's face, and there are no 
more tears. Am just in from a walk with Ste- 
phen and Harry. We went to hear Mrs. El- 
liot sing "The Palms," and to see her perennial 
poppies — a blaze of sunrise and ebony. While 
resting in the green velvet of the grass, Harry 
cribbed "The Merchant of Venice" from Ste- 
phen's pocket, and, as he read, a crow sat in the 



248 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

hemlock overhead and Hstened with rapt atten- 
tion. I think he was interested in that "pound of 
flesh." We are going to-night to Monksrest to 
hear the whippoorwills. 



CLVI. 

May 24, 1900. — Ascension Day. 
As I neared Brow-wait this morning, WalHe, 
I smelled that deHcious smell of burning leaves. 
The Monastery boys were there to welcome 
me, and escort me to an Ascension Day pic- 
nic on Mrs. Anderson's lawn. Mrs. McDon- 
ald was there ahead of us, Mrs. Monroe and 
Stephen were there, and the two Kimball 
boys who are spending the day with us. The 
Master and Convallaria in the phaeton, came, 
for a while, an hour later. Harry, too, was 
there : but Philip, Herbert and Harold were busy 
with examinations. Mrs. McDonald brought 
"Kate Carnegie," the book that Herbert gave her 
Christmas, and we sat in the porch, and I read 
to the ladies and some of the boys who^ were 
interested. I read in particular Mrs. Cameron's 
estimate of "Donald's" veracity. And where could 
one find a bit of humour more delicate and en- 
tertaining? Some of the boys played tennis on 
the lawn, and Harry headed another party that 
went to Monksrest to see the purple clematis. 
It is the only place where I ever found it. They, 
too, found it, but it is late for it now. We ate 
our strawberries and cream, and then* Mrs. An- 
derson brought out some china, so thin it seemed 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 249 

like gossamer ; and there on the verge of the deep 
woods we made a pot of coffee, and you know 
that no coifee is better than that made out of 
doors. The crows cawed their satisfaction ; and 
a friendly squirrel sat near, and feasted on an 
English walnut that Stephen threw him. In the 
subdued light on the ledges of rock above the 
house, the columbines burned. All the fire of 
sunrise seemed drawn there, and I found it hard 
to get away from their glorious presence. They 
held more of the Glory of God than all the in- 
spired canvasses of the painters of all time. The 
first Mass to-day was at 6, so that men on their 
way to w^ork might kneel unto Him for strength : 
the incense from the Altar mingling with the 
odours from the old gardens there, and the 
booming of the bells and the sobbing circles of 
their cadences melted away unto the velvety haze 
of the far-off mountains that look so much like 
the immeasurable stretches of the sea. We are 
all at home, now, and Mrs. McDonald is get- 
ting an omelette and some sandwiches ready. 
We brought good appetites from the woods 
where we enjoyed a perfect Summer day. The 
sun was hot, and we were glad at times to get 
into, the shade of those old sugar maples. 



CLVII. 



May 25, 1900. 
The Kimball boys have gone back to school, 
Wallie, and it seems just a bit lonely after their 
dash and energy and restless youth. The morn- 



250 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

ing is dark, and the shadows are heavy in all 
the glens, and that helps us to miss the boys. 
Wherever we look the dogwoods are a startling 
flash of white. The brook says there will be 
rain. I was out in the first hush of the day tO' 
have a talk with it, and extended my walk to 
the Brakes and Warrior Rock and the way 
of the Perpetual Silences. The rocks there seem 
so much older than in other parts of the moun- 
tains ; they have all the scars of Eternity on their 
hammered faces. The echoes there have such 
ghostly voices. The unbroken twilight is a faint 
commingling of green and pale sunshine, and 
there is a sob in the wind as of spirits that rest 
not. I breathe more freely when I leave the 
place. I stood a long time yesterday in a per- 
fect wilderness of Dicksonia ferns, thinking of 
the bow like unto an emerald in S. John's de- 
scription of Heaven. It means that through the 
Might of The Gospel, Heaven shall at last trans- 
figure the Earth, and the Earth shall reflect its 
splendours — There. The old Apostle had lived 
a hundred years among the hills, and they had 
inspired him with the largest hope for Men — a 
salvation as broad and as wholesome as the 
blue. A last columbine burns high on the ledge 
of rocks above the south porch, and a crow comes 
and sits by its fire to learn a new song that 
he intends for your welcome to the hills next 
Sunday morning. The ducks listen with cour- 
tesy, but I know from their expression that they 
think him utterly lacking in talent. Philip sent 
Mrs. McDonald a case of Scotch whiskey, and 
she — wellj she was not sorry. After a half min= 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 251 

lite of insistence, she said to me : 'Well, if 
ye are so determined, I micht as weel taste it." 
And she did, the g'ood mother! *'Ah, that 
is the very air of Edenburgh !'' she answered 
my inquiring look ; and then, thinking of his 
diploma next month, she added : ^'Here's to 
the health of Dr. Philip Ageweicht." She is al- 
ways more Scotch when animated. A bottle 
is wrapped in a Stuart plaid, and it will find 
its way into your hands when you come next 
Sunday. A letter has just come from Herbert. 



CLVIII. 



May 29, 1900. 
The morning Is cool, Wallie, and Cardinal 
Brook runs close to the moss and the ferns to 
keep warm. How those fine ostrich ferns sug- 
gest a perpetual Palm Sunday; and how the 
pink moccasin-flowers hallow the woods with 
their frail loveliness ! I am sure that they say 
a prayer for the departed red men. Their camp- 
fires are burnt-out ashes, never more to be 
fanned Into life — but the breasts of the warriors 
themselves burn with the Lightnings of the God- 
head there in the World to Come. The orchid 
that bears the red man's name is better known 
than his arrows, for civilization has reached a 
higher cycle, and it is the reign of the Prince 
of Peace. The Kimball boys are coming to 
spend Memorial Day with us, and have promised 
their mother that they will bring her some of 



252 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the wonderful blossoms on their return. The 
distances are all hidden now, submerged by the 
deluge of green leaves that has rolled over the 
world from the Eternal opulence of Summer. 
You can't see the Monastery towers, and the 
songs of the thrush are heard above the voices 
of the boys of the school. The first Jacqueminot 
roses burn in the garden to-day, and the ledges 
that hang above the green-houses are all hidden 
with campanulas — the old rocks are incarnate 
in the sapphire of heaven. Harry Phillips and 
Clarence King and Laurence Kent are going 
out with me among them after this note, and 
I am to read Ruskin's ''Seven Lamps of Ar- 
chitecture" aloud. It will hallow their young 
lives to hear the words of this old apostle, who 
has climbed sO' far into the Light. The lawn is 
white with Summer snow from the dogwoods, 
and the trees themselves whose blossoms will 
whiten the graves of warriors to-morrow, lo, 
they tell that there are no graves in the Glory 
where the warriors reign ! Just now a carriage 
drove to the door, and a woman, heavy with the 
weight of years and wearing the vesture of one 
who has long time mourned for the dead, asked 
to see the Master. Her shrunken face showed 
that the tide of life has ebbed out unto the vast 
ocean of To-morrow. The roar of The Jordan 
is in her ears : but the light on her dear face is 
the reflection of the white lilies on the Other 
Shore. For forty years she has come for roses 
for her dead boy who was killed the first year 
of the war, and part of the roses which the Mas- 
ter has just given her were from a bush that 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 253 

the dear lad gave him the Spring before he gave 
his young Hfe for his country. The Master sent 
her on her wav with Peace. 



CLIX. 

May 31, 1900. 
The hills are wrapt In quivering purple heat 
this morning, Wallie — the substance that dreams 
are made of sleeps in the far-off haze. The 
sweeping elms dip their branches in the steam 
of pearl and gold, and the trunks of the scar-- 
let oaks are black with moisture. Robins fill 
all the silences with their clarion joy, and the 
sunshine streams through the petals of the wild 
geraniums that fringe all the dim aisles of the 
woods with their loveliness. From the clouds 
the crows caw remembrances of early March, 
and the thrush sings measureless melodies. The 
hearts of the wrens gush with songs in the sy-" 
ringas ; the wind stirs the leaves with the oldest 
music in the world : Cardinal Brook flashes down 
the glen with Benedicites in its verdurous course. 
The world is ready for the Summer that will 
come with to-morrow. The fireplace is drifted 
full of the snow of hawthorns — the burnt-out 
ashes of the Winter have sprung into' these white 
blossoms of life. I went yesterday and took 
lunch with Mrs. Elliot, and on the table she had 
a vase of cinnamon fern blossoms that I sent 
her a day or two ago. I was so much pleased 
with her appreciation. The Abbot came and 
lunched quietly with the Master, and the fathers 



254 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

with a number of the boys went down tO' the 
cemetery for the Memorial exercises. At 9 A. m. 
the veterans with drums and music and tattered 
flags drove by, and we all cheered them lustily. 
They in turn cheered the Master, and he stood 
with uncovered head while they were passing. 
How old and broken they looked ! I felt a sob 
as I cheered them. At 6 p. m. the lads all came 
and had ice cream and strawberries in the 
kitchen, and staid with us till 8. Philip and 
Halle and Harry and the two Kimballs were 
of the party; and when we had finished, we all 
sang the Gloria in Excelsis, and closed the day 
with its sacred memories. 

A robin is on the porch as I write, almost at 
my feet. He is making a breakfast from a straw- 
berry that Mrs. McDonald threw him, and wipes 
his beak with a dainty claw, clattering and wal- 
loping round us, with now and again a delicious, 
quarrelsome song. I have been reading Ruskin 
to the Master, and put down the book after a 
glowing passage, to see what our red-breast 
friend will do. I think he wants another straw- 
berry. 



CLX. 

June i, 1900. 

The calendar travailed In the night, and June 
was born. June gives length of days and sits 
upon the throne of the Solstice. There is a 
scent of rain in the air this morning, Wallie, 
all through the quiet hills. As the wind stirs 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 255 

the leaves, here and there a fragrant shining drop 
is seen, and Lady Thrush is using it for a look- 
ing-glass. I suppose she wishes to see whether 
her voice be up to concert pitch. And the pine 
tree wishes to know what the lovely singer's 
voice has to do with "pitch." Cardinal Brook 
reflects the hawkweed on its still waters to-day, 
and the gold of the pine balsams drifts there. 
How soft the shadows make the old rocks ap- 
pear ! Where a week ago the columbines glowed 
like a blacksmith's forge, there the dainty cam- 
panula rings its bells, and calls us unto a new 
song of ''Jubilate Deo." A shaft of sunlight 
shoots from the clouds and breaks in splendour 
on the "waters near my seat — I am at Breakfast 
Rock — and it reveals a shadowy moth drifting 
over the stream, a.nd shaking from its wings a 
fine dust of gold: Just here came the rush of 
many feet — the boys of the school going over 
to the Monroes to enjoy a strawberry shortcake. 
They will get all they expect and more : and 
so it will be in the end of life with them and you 
and me and all men. I looked on their fine faces 
and glowing eyes and kindling excitement, and 
thought how sad it is that so many lives make 
shipvvTeck of their glorious power. They take 
the thirty seconds of indulgence, and their God 
is crucified ! That Father grieves. I wonder 
how many ever think that God sorrows ! The 
world that should have touched the hem of their 
Alanhood's strength and been made whole, alas ! 
it goes on in its curse of moral leprosy. But 
That Grand Christ said if He were lifted up 
from the Earthy He w^ould draw all Mankind 



256 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

unto Himself, and for that we must work and 
pray and wait. 

I met Laurence Kent on my way home: he 
was returning- from a call on the old botanist 
of Monksrest, and had an armful of Marechal 
roses. He asked the gardener if the vexations 
of life ever break through his calm and steady 
patience, and his answer was : ''If I feel my- 
self inclined to impatience and hasty words, I 
go out among the columbines and the bluets, and 
they immediately restore me to my truer self." 



CLXI. 

June 4, 1900. 
It Is cold this morning, Wallie, and a fire 
on the hearth gives cheer and comfort. It burns, 
too, with energy, as if the frosts of January 
were at the door. The glowing coals are so 
pleasant to look on, and a luxury to feel, with the 
wind in the north. The doors and the windows 
are all open, though, and the air is sweet from 
locust blossoms, and just quivering with the 
songs of bobolinks and thrushes. I heard the 
milkman go over the flowery avenue at 3 this 
morning. A star or two stood in their tent 
doors and watched, and the sleepy blackberry- 
hedges shook down their blossoms. In the first 
hush of the dawn^ I am conscious of a feeling 
that comes at no other time. It passes with the 
stars, but all through the hours of work, I find 
myself yearning for something lost. The story 
of Eden is new every morning. I went out with 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 257 

Stephen Monroe at 4, and we built a fire on the 
rocks, and stood over it, and inhaled the soft 
smoke, and enjoyed the blaze and the heat. The 
lad sang, and waked, oh, such a chorus of birds — 
the woods just throbbed with the music, and 
then a whippoorwill broke a minor chord on 
the hush. I am out again, down near Con- 
vallaria's cabin, watching the birds on the distant 
fields of waving grass, as they dip into the cool, 
green surf. I see, too, not far away, a young 
father out in the intoxicating balm and incense 
of the morning, holding his heir asleep in his 
arms. The little lad has never seen a June be- 
fore. A sunbeam just fell at his wee feet, and 
paused to compare his own glory with the babe's 
radiant hair. I am going over to talk with 
him — I see he is waking up — "for of such is 
the Kingdom of Heaven." I wish you could 
see the purple lilies in the Monastery gardens. 
It is now 10 P. M., Wallie. I am just in from 
Monksrest where I went at 6 to hear the whip- 
poorwills. I sometimes think it is not a bird 
at all, but the mystery of silence given speech. 
The sunset fire threw flakes of gold through the 
luminous woods ; and, though so late in the sea- 
son, a bluet or a saxifraga blossom or an anem- 
one, here and there, glorified the path with its 
frail loveliness. I built a fire, and sought shel- 
ter from the wind that raged and dashed and 
screeched, and then fell to whispering lullabies. 
And during the intervals, the weird recluses 
sang songs as old as the night. I feel a buoy- 
ancy, a freshness, an exhilaration from the re- 
membrance, quickening the current of the blood 



258 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

with the pulse-beat of a new vigour that passed 
away with youth. It is all come back again. I 
stayed until dark and left with regret — there 
were yearnings in the fire that bade me stay 
with them, and the flames were so rich and soft 
against the gloom that nestled beneath the oaks 
and the viburnums. I turned and looked back, 
again and again, and wondered if the spirits of 
the red men would come and find a council- 
fire kindled for them. The fire-flies held torches 
along the path, as I returned — the night thickened 
so fast. And the blackberry blossoms, how they 
towered in shinings all along the way ! They 
are so white, a spotless white, by day: but a 
ghostly phosphorescent splendour as the light 
flashes on them in the blackness. I hold my 
breath lest they vanish as I look on them. They 
are of such exquisite softness and radiance, a 
fabric like the clouds. I wonder whether they 
bring the past day's winding-sheet or the new 
day's swaddling clothes. I think, too, they are 
streaked with gold — they are so lustrous ; long 
racemes of incandescent light, swaying in the 
blackness and filling the silence thick, as I stand 
among them, listening to our bird's soft, sooth- 
ing, plaintive melodies. 



CLXIL 



June 5, 1900. 
I went to Mass to-day, Tuesday, in Whitsun- 
Week, Wallie, and then spent an hour with the 
Abbot in his study. We had the cup of coffee, 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 259 

of course. Am just back to the cabin ; and as 
I take my seat, a crow alights in Caltha Swamp. 
He is just far enough away for his notes to be 
soft and musical. How it suggests early March, 
and the passing of Winter, and the first warm 
days, and the new, vigourous life of the year ! 
Dear bird, I love him all through the year, and 
never hear him without feeling the surge of a 
stronger optimism. I w^ent to the Monastery 
and talked to the boys a while yesterday, and 
told them some of the legends of the old hills. 
We sat in the garden — the air full of spicy fra- 
grances from the wild cherry blossoms that were 
snowing everywhere. Peonies were in blossom, 
locusts hung their clusters of white grapes from 
the boughs, hawthorns were as thick as stars, 
and daisies white on the distant fields — like the 
Milky Way. The roses burned with the Fires 
of Pentecost, and the air was filled with their 
new revelation from On High. A whole year's 
preparation for this one week of splendour ! One 
of the lads asked me about Cleft Rock, and 
I told him the story : how one of the first set- 
tlers here on the hills asked an old Indian how 
it became rent : and, pointing to the rude wooden 
Cross that he wore, he answered : "It was done 
on the Day of the Death of God." The rocks 
of the mountain heights testified their allegiance 
to The Rock of Ages, whose Heart was smit- 
ten to smite the stone hearts of men. After 
my talk with the boys, I went in to see Mrs. 
Bruce, and stood over her delightful kitchen- 
fire, for it was cold. And after that, Harry 
Phillips took me home to eat strawberries with 
him. 



26o Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



CLXIIL 

June 7, 1900. 
The hills are filled with fragrances, Wallie, 
and in the slumbrous shade the night lingers 
to see what the day is like. The same vast calm 
and silence and mystery; Life is transfigured 
by their power. As a lad goes over the path 
from Breakfast Rock to the rails of the old fence 
in Caltha Swamp, he sings out of the fullness 
of his glad, young life, and I listen — forget- 
ting everything else for the moment — for it 
shows that in his conception of this glorious 
life, there are no tired minds and bodies, no 
wasting unto age, no sickness, nor tolling bells, 
nor dust to dust. All is glorious strength. No 
hateful voices of experience cry : "Take care !" 
The flush of the apple blossoms is on all that 
the lad thinks of. He is in the full beauty of 
his untouched Garden. There are no lightning- 
flashes of conscience on the night, with : "Whoi 
told thee that thou wast naked?" The dear, 
untroubled youth ! How his very unconscious 
influence brightens the life that is weary from its 
weight of years ! The sin-stained, crushed and 
filthy race will be restored to the strength and 
the loveliness of character that were lost. I 
know it every time I look into an honest boy's 
face. O poor wretched World, but not lost, 
the wide stretches of Memory shall again blos- 
som thick with wild-flowers, and in every glen the 
blood-roots will spread the shinings of Heaven 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 261 

untouched b}- the shadows of temptation ! Mrs. 
McDonald stands in the porch as I write, Hs- 
tening to a cat-bird, and I just heard her say: 
*'A fine blather, the bonny hen !" She put out 
a dish of cherries yesterday and forgot them, 
and the robins ate every one. I wish you could 
have seen her shake the dish at them, saying: 
"Now, may God forgive you for thieves !" Ja- 
mie is proud of his garden ; this last week his 
peas have been sheets of white butterflies, and he 
has promised to bring them to the table for the 
Festival of S. John Baptist. I have no doubt 
that he will do it. He sits resting now — "the 
Man with the hoe" — In the shadowy blossoms 
of the lunaria and the soothings of their lilac 
beauty. The whippoorwills fill all the glens 
these nights. 



CLXIV. 

9 : 30 p. M., June 12, 1900. 
I am just in from another trip to Monksrest. 
Harry met me on the long avenue. I found 
him at 7, In the green-and-crimson gold of the 
twilight waiting on our old chestnut seat. As we 
climbed the hills, the sunset shone through last 
year's russet leaves and made them such a depth 
of living red : and I know that In the sunset of 
our lives the extreme hour will pour the trans- 
fusion of its splendours through all the Past 
and make it glorious — stamped with His Like- 
ness. On reaching the summit, we built a fire, 
and fought mosquitoes, and enjoyed a box of 



262 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

butternuts that we took with us. It was a bit 
tiresome for him, though his fine courtesy would 
not allow him to show it ; and, moreover, the 
mosquitoes showed a decided preference for the 
younger blood. I told him it is because they 
like railroad stock better than theology. The 
whippoorwills came close to us this time: we 
saw them for the first, and one that flitted to 
and fro on the crest told his weird, soft strain — 
I counted — 250 times. It seemed to increase 
in volume and richness, as I listened— a pas- 
sionate, hopeful sorrow. A messenger from 
Atropos, perchance, but a thrill of optimism is 
felt back of its strange foreboding. It tells that 
*'Joy cometh in the morning." We called on 
the old gardener, and he showed us his roses — 
a pale, creamy gold and the whole green- 
house spicy from their fragrances. Then he 
walked with us to the ruined house, and in the 
cellar that lay all exposed to the sky, a great 
clump of elder-berry bushes grew, heavy and 
white and sweet with blossoms. "It is the true 
way to have wine in the cellar," said the old 
man : and I thought how the birds in the ripe- 
ness of the Summer will celebrate the vintage, 
no drunkenness and debauchery, but innocency 
and thanksgiving. Harry said to the old stu- 
dent : "Do' you ever weary of the life here?" 
And as he answered no, he seemed saturated, 
through and through, with all that infinite riches 
of Glory. Good-night; my pen is sleepy. 




Oriifinal by Ambrose Askeic. 

Glen of the ^Vhippoorwills. 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 263 

CLXV. 

June 14, 1900. 
After my note to you yesterday, Wallie, a 
message came to me from the Monastery, ask- 
ing me to take some Mission work for a couple 
of months. I consented, so here I am in Scar- 
bourn, miles away from the hills that I love more 
than life, and I hardly need tell you that I am 
homesick. It was one of those calls that a man 
feels he must not refuse, though every feeling 
protest. It is night. I hear the surge of the 
thick woods ; and above, a few stars burn in 
the fire-mingled haze. I am alone in this holy 
house ; alone in my study — a rocking chair, a 
large Smyrna rug, a desk, and a light in an old 
silver candle-stick. The windows are all open, 
and I hear the whippoorwills : dear things, it 
is the one sweet thing that reminds me of home, 
and comforts me. They have stopped singing, 
and now an occasional owl reminds me that he, 
too, is keeping vigil. Since a supper of straw- 
berries and toast and a cup of coffee, I have 
been reading the only thing that I could lay my 
hands on — a volume of Keats. I think you will 
know right off that I have read "S. Agnes' Eve" 
and the ''Ode to a Nightingale" — the two im- 
mortal poems that you and I always read on S. 
Agnes' Eve, and feel the thrill, the fire, the pas- 
sion of that deathless intellect, though the frail 
clay wasted unto nothingness ere he had reached 
the full splendour of youth. An owl has just 
hooted again, and I ask him if he remembers 



264 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

the line — "The owl for all his feathers was 
acold." I hear the quiet step of the Mother 
Superior who has just placed a candle in my 
bed-chamber, and my drowsy eyes tell me it 
is best now to forget the world and go and 
dream of Agewelght and the hills. It is only 
in dreams that I shall see them for weeks to 
come. Good-night. 



CLXVI. 



June 15, 1900. 
My first day of Patmos is ended, and I sit 
alone in my study. Patmos, I call it ; but S. John 
found Patmos near to Heaven. The lawn this 
morning was full of robins, and in the porch the 
wrens sang incessantly. The woods all day have 
been noisy with crows. I wish you could have 
heard them. After my work among the poor 
sick folk I came home and went all over the 
place. To my great delight, I found an old 
stone wall full of Dicksonia ferns, their lovely 
silken fronds. I have some on my desk as I 
write, and a branch of ripe shad-berry. How it 
takes me back to that ramble when we found all 
the hills fringed with it! We have had straw- 
berries three times to-day, great living melting 
coals of spiritual fire, concentrating all the es- 
sences of all the blossoms of the year — the de- 
licious Brandywines. I feel that I am eating an 
immortal fruit that will repair all the waste and 
weakness of the years. I went to the spring a 
little while ago, and on my way back through 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 265 

the calm woods an Italian woman met me, and 
said : "O, Padre, I am so glad you are back. I 
want you to baptize my babe." And it touched 
me deeply. I am so glad to have won the love 
of the poor. Oh, that delicious thrush, telling his 
sweet contentment ! It is a prophecy of the 
peace that shall never be broken by the rage and 
dissonance of war. The sun has gone down into 
the fires that burn the west — the day is done : I 
see the tired folk going home from their work. 
In a little cottage across a field of grain I see a 
young mother hold her little one up to his 
father, who has just come from the mill, and his 
sweet cooing mingles with the scent of cinnamon 
roses that blossom where the glad father stands. 
The fire-flies remind me that it is time to light 
my candle. 



CLXVIL 

June 25, 1900. 
It is Monday morning, Wallie. I am out in 
the fields, under some old hickories, resting from 
a full Sunday of work, the work that I have 
always done, and such as is dear to a Priest's 
heart. After a day whose remembrance is like 
a furnace blast, such a morning as this comes 
and dips a finger in the chalice of the dews, and 
cools the fevered pulse of life with balm and 
health. We are grateful, too, for the shade, 
where the shadows rest in the stillness, waiting 
for the night. I got your delightful letter, and 
with it came others from Mrs. McDonald, Halle, 



266 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

Herbert and Harold. I am more interested in 
my work now, and it takes away some of the 
sting and pain of homesickness. I wonder, as I 
sit here, whether you went to the cabin yester- 
day, and whether Harry and Stephen were there, 
and what the dear folk at the Monastery were 
doing. I know you are all glad that Philip is 
home with his diploma. "We must give a dinner 
in his honour," says Mrs. McDonald ; but I know 
she will wait the Priest's return. I told Philip 
about Keats, and in his letter he said that he 
was reading it once in the woods, and an old 
farmer came along. He stopped, and at Philip's 
invitation took up the book and opened it at the 
"Ode to a Nightingale." He was silent some 
time, and his expression was that of a man who 
had tackled the toughest job of his life. Pres- 
ently he handed it back, with : "Well, if he really 
owed it, why under heaven didn't he pay it and 
not die in debt ?" I shall never read Keats again 
without thinking of our friend of the farm, and 
it will always bring a smile. I can hear Philip 
laugh even now. Across the road from where 
I sit a buttercup burns like a star, and the vast 
solitudes that surround me are thick with bird- 
song and worship. The chestnut trees in the 
woods begin to assume an individuality — it is 
nearing their time of blossoming. How the bees 
will sing among them at Monksrest ! I shut my 
eyes, and their drowsy songs nearly put me tO' 
sleep. The mail brought me a package this 
morning, neatly and securely tied. On opening 
it I found a box of orchids, calopogons and 
pogonias, that Harold' sent me from Connecti- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 267 

cut, where he had been spending a day or two. 
It has made me forget that I was tired. I am 
going to have a cherry-pie for dinner. Goodby. 



CLXVIII. 



July 4, 1900. 
This morning I was up at 3 : 45 : the cannons 
and the horns and the fire-crackers made sleep 
impossible. I went into the garden and read 
Matins in the hush, the fragrance, the expec- 
tancy of the coming day, and all round the robins 
carolled the Glorias. The shadows lay thick 
among the trees, and the air all fresh with dew 
was a strong draught of health. The pallor and 
the sleepiness of night lingered under the blos- 
soming catalpas, though all the east glowed with 
a soft rose colour that deepened into the red gold 
of sunrise. Philip Ageweight came last night to 
spend the holiday with me quietly. It is now 5, 
and he has just joined me in the arbour, where 
the morning-glories are opening. He puts his 
face down into their purple depths and protests 
that they are fragrant. I agree with him, and 
have always wondered that so many think that 
they are not sweet at all. 

9 p. M. 
We are out in a little retreat overlooking the 
swamp, and have had our quiet day. He brought 
Scott's "Bride of Lammermoor" with him, hav- 



268 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

ing- read that Chauncey M. Depew pronounces it 
a book that every young man should know as a 
study in Hterature. We read it aloud all the 
morning, and after a lunch of raspberries and 
cream we went out into a new swamp that I 
have wished to explore ever since I came here. 
We found Sundews-Drosera in abundance, and, 
though late for them, there was an orchid here 
and there, calopogons and pogonias. It was a 
great joy to us both, and in the thrill of excite- 
ment we forgot that it was so warm. Returning, 
we went to our rooms and rested a while; and 
after our cup of coffee at 6, came out to enjoy 
the rockets. They hissed and rushed into the 
sky, and broke into splendour all round us, and 
then it was blacker than before. Ah, men them- 
selves soar aloft like the rockets, but come down 
burnt sticks ! And here I call to mind what 
Thoreau said of our aspirations : The young 
man gets together his materials to build a bridge 
to the moon, or a palace or a temple on the 
earth; and at length the middle-aged man con- 
cludes to build a wood-shed with them. It is a 
true philosophy, and so many of us have found 
it so in our own practical experience. 



CLXIX. 



July 9, 1900. 
Life and Health and blessing to you this anni- 
versary day, Wallie. I cannot be with you, ex- 
cept by the grace of my gold pen — with that I 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 269 

must be satisfied. I am out in the fields ; my 
day's work is done. The sun is in the west, and 
the splendour comes to me through the thick 
trees on the hills. Oh, these glorious days ! The 
whole vast sky and air and woods and fields 
swell and beat and throb and quiver with the 
exuberance of bird life and song — incessant, joy- 
ous. Birds have nothing to minister to a world's 
pain and sorrow and disease — their only concep- 
tion is glorious, everlasting health. I find, 
though, that these days are tiresome from two to 
six in the evening. The birds are hushed then, 
and the air burns. There are great wastes of 
smothering heat ; it seems so long since the fresh- 
ness of the morning; the nerves are tired, and 
the gift of youth that the morning gave is taken 
from me. A soft creamy whiteness of chestnut 
blossoms brightens the woods now, and has for 
the last week. I know they have fringed all the 
hills there at Ageweight and Monksrest, taking 
the place of the pink and white laurels that were 
so lovely when I came away here to Patmos ; 
but S. John on his Patmos had visions and revela- 
tions of Heaven. I hear the leisurely brook; 
and on my return from some mission work to- 
day I left the hot sand of the road, and went and 
walked on the wet stones among the maiden-hair 
ferns and the soothing shadows of dafifodil light. 
At one of the places where I called this morn- 
ing, a devout woman was burning a candle for 
her little boy — the anniversary of his birthday 
into Eternal Life. She said : 'Tt is another 
year nearer the Great Revelation, Father, and 
the tears will not be the tears of the old pain." 



270 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

I told her that she will find her babe There: 
glorious with the manhood of Jesus Christ, and 
that this same dear Christ will send him in her 
own extreme hour to welcome her to the land 
where there are no graves. I had a letter to-day 
from Will Delaroche in California, and in it he 
tells me that he intends to spend October with 
us among the hills. The two Clark boys spent 
yesterday with me, and Clarence King is coming 
next week, to bring me a purple gloxinia. 



CLXX. 



July 18, 1900. 
I was poking around in the attic one day last 
week when the rain kept me within doors, and, 
to my great delight, I found an old chest full of 
magazines. What a treasure of intellectual gold, 
and how much I have enjoyed their society! 
There are no grave-yards there : take up a maga- 
zine of 1883 and Tennyson is still living. I read 
my Matins this morning at 4 : 30, and the birds 
helped out the praise with their songs. All 
through Mass, too, they poured out their Glorias. 
There is a great wealth of blossoms round me. 
Dandelions and clovers are fresh on the lawns 
despite the fierce mid-summer heat : a hedge of 
sunflowers is heavy with odours of frankincense ; 
a stubble-field near by is a very riot of evening 
Primroses — ^the soft yellow that carries the 
Spring's youth far into harvest-time. The pump- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 271 

kin blossoms make a blaze of orange on the gar- 
den fence, while the fields below me are all 
on fire with acres of cone-flowers. I sat last 
night and read my diary of these last twelve 
years, and it waa like facing the Day of Judg- 
ment. I see pitiless Death take from a moth- 
er's breast the babe just old enough to lisp her 
name, and tears that waste the sight will not 
suffer us to see that the babe has grown unto 
the full stature of the Glorious Christ — There, 
on the Other Shore. Stop the funeral bells, and 
rejoice that there is not a stain of earth on his 
baby soul. Ah, me, what yearning! And the 
very yearning is proof that we shall all come to- 
gether again in that Vast To-morrow. A young 
wife came to see me at noon. She has just 
come to this place, and everything is new and 
strange. We sat in the shaded porch, and as 
we ate a dish of cherry currants, she told me 
that she will try ' not to be too homesick. I 
talked with the very eloquence of sympathy for 
the poor child, for I yearn myself for the home 
that I cannot see till Fall. There came a re- 
spite from the sorrowing, though, to-day. Scarce- 
ly was the lady gone from me, when a buggy 
drove up the lane, and who had come but Ste- 
phen Monroe. ''Get in. Father, I wish you to 
make a call with me." And after ten minutes 
we stopped at a cottage where Frank and Doug- 
lass Kimball and Clarence King have taken board 
until the first of September. It will be a pre- 
cious month for us all. Thev had not told me. 



272 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 



CLXXL 

August 17, 1900. 
There was an owl in the swamp last night, 
Wallie, and all the blackness throbbed with his 
cries. It comes to my mind so vividly at this 
moment — I am under the hickories close to the 
swamp, as I write, and the sharp twang of the 
locusts' songs fills the hot Summer air. As I sit 
here with letters in my hands — letters from Mrs. 
McDonald, Stephen, Halle, Harry and yourself 
— I recall that 30th of April last year, when 
you and I were on the mountains the first time 
that Spring. The little breakfast on the ledge 
of rock that was wet from the little silver brook 
back of the Monastery — I shut my eyes and it's 
all spread again. Even that long hot walk af- 
terward, through the dust, gives no personal 
discomfort now, for it ended in that revelation 
of gold in Caltha Swamp. Were I as rich as 
the acres of golden-rod before me, I would give 
half a kingdom to see old Caltha Swamp to- 
day. A thunder-shower has just swept by to 
the north, whirling down some drops of rain 
and filling the fields with its flashings, for the 
sun shines on through it all. I go back to my 
musings, and the beauty of past Springs on the 
mountains has comforted me through all these 
long, hard weeks of work. Memory wafts to 
me over and over again, the soft, smoky light 
and the delicious scent of the burnt leaves of 
so many Aprils. I see again the earthquake- 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 273 

torn rocks that have lost their vigour in nutiir- 
ing the lovely white-hearts — dicentra, as frail 
as threads of gossamer. The last year's dead 
leaves, heaped in drifts through the woods, are a 
radiant bronze ; and the piles of brush with their 
ragged bark, together with the dead branches 
that snap under foot, have almost a touch of the 
sky in their soft grey — they have lain under the 
open heavens so long. How many times we 
have stretched ourselves out on the chips where 
some old chestnut had fallen! The heat of the 
new year is quivering all round us, and clus- 
ters of sapphires glisten where the Hepaticas 
blossom under the protection of their guardian 
rocks. We listen, and old Indian River, wear- 
ing the thinnest girdle of new grass, is sing- 
ing its Easter carols, and no other sound is heard 
save the voices of bees and birds joining to swell 
the chorus. Here we look up, and a vigourous 
dandelion standing in its doorway, is looking 
heavenward, and we veil our eyes before its 
splendour — it has looked on the sun so long. 
A short way off, a brilliancy of white arrests 
our eyes, as the wind scatters the petals of the 
blood-root. How wonderful ! A whole year of 
preparation for just these few hours of loveli- 
ness : but their transient lives are long enough 
to teach men that they, too, can go back to God 
with the same whiteness of character. A voice 
here breaks my musings ; one of the sisters has 
walked out to my retreat, and tells me that there 
are some old friends waiting at the house to see 
me, and I must say goodby. The time is short. 



2 74 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

One more letter, and then I come back to the 
hills — Alleluia ! 

P.vS. — Herbert and Harold have come to spend 
the night with me. 



CLXXH. 



September i, 1900. 
This is my last letter, Wallie : we close the 
house and the Summer work the 8th : Patmos is 
nearly finished. A new-born babe lies in the 
cradle of the year this morning. The World 
Mother calls it September, and old Father Time 
gives the little maid a robe of many colours. 
At 4 A. M. Venus was like a burning lotus blos- 
som on the sea of the twilight : I stood long 
time looking at it, and from the garden drifted 
up to me the scent of ripening grapes — Concords 
and Madeiras. 



September 5, 1900. 
The wind is north to-day and cold. The win- 
dows are closed : it is pleasant to sit in the sun- 
shine. The fierce heat and manhood of the year 
is past — just the calm, subdued strength of com- 
ing age: Translucent mists drift through the 
woods, showing how the scarlet hue of martyr- 
dom has touched the leaves. I am going out 
after this with some twelve or fifteen of the 
girls of the mission who have been known as 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 275 

"The Fern Club." We all have enjoyed it and 
pursued the study with enthusiasm, making some 
notable finds — the walking fern and the purple 
cliff brake being the chief. Some day, probably, 
the club may give the world a botanist. The 
boys, too, of the Mission have been organized — ■ 
"The Club of Twenty-Two,'' and we have had 
readings every other evening from 7 to 8. "The 
Sunset Readings" they have called them. Last 
night we sat before a sweet dreamy hearth-fire 
and finished "Little Lord Fauntleroy." They 
have put their whole souls into it, and I trust 
it will help them to make their boyhood count. 
One of the lads sits with me now, and is read- 
ing Lew Wallace's "Boyhood of Christ," is quite 
lost in it. His nam^e is Fred. Morton, and he 
has been with me all Summer, making Patmos 
Heaven, for, as Dickens said : "There is noth- 
ing on earth half so holy as the innocent face 
of a child," My parting word to the lad will 
be to say at all times, of every action : "Would 
the Boy Christ do this?" And when I go back 
again, I am sure he will have grown in the Divine 
Stature. The last Mass will be on S. Mary's 
Festival, the 8th, and then the Altar will be dis- 
mantled for another year. I look back and the 
work has given me great pleasure ; I feel both 
pain and joy in closing it. I shall miss the 
children, and a little cottage in the woods where 
I have called many times — a very paradise of 
flowers, and where I have been received with 
great kindness by a mother and her children, 
all of whom I have baptized. Another cottage 
on the verge of the swamp has been girt round 



276 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

with such abundance of red HHes — ithey will 
blossom in my memory through all the frosts 
of Winter : and another place, too, in the swamp, 
after my departure, will sting appreciative nerves 
with gleams of Cardinal-flower until the velvety 
gloom burn with its fires again. Well, the Fern 
Club is ready to go, and I find all the boys of 
''Twenty-two" are invited. They have prom- 
ised to look for none but "The Lady Fern." The 
crows are calling; so — goodby. 



CLXXIII. 



September ii^ 1900. 
I am at home again, Wallie. Philip and Halle 
met me at the Brier Knot station this morn- 
ing at 9, and after stopping a moment at Phil- 
ip's for a word of kindly greeting with his fam- 
ily, I came directly to the cabin. The Mas- 
ter and Mrs. McDonald and Stephen met me 
in the porch, and the good mother stretched out 
her arms with ''The exile is finished !" I went 
the rounds — the library, the dining-room, the 
old kitchen, the green-house, the dogs, the ducks 
• — the dear quacks ! And then after an half hour 
in the hammock, Mrs. McDonald called us to 
lunch — toast, shredded wheat and cream, a dish 
of peaches and one of the finest water-melons. 
After lunch Stephen and I went out for a walk. 
I felt like stooping down and kissing the dear 
ground, when v/e reached Caltha Swamp, I had 
yearned for it so long. Cardinal Brook com- 
plained to me of the long drought, and well it 



Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 277 

might — there was not a brook-song anywhere. 
I went and paid my deference to the Abbot and 
the other Alonastery folk, and they all gave me 
a cordial welcome home. Mrs. Bruce insisted 
that I must sit in her little parlour and eat a 
peach : they were as large as teacups, a soft, red 
and creamy down of gold, Stephen left me, and 
I went back to the cabin alone. Oh, the hills 
and the woods and the old rocks are so precious ! 
A curtain soft as purple lilies hangs before the 
mountains beyond Monksrest, and the million 
leaves of another passing Summer sing the 
choruses of the wind. Dittany is in blossom 
everywhere, and all the rocky avenues are red 
with the berries of the wild rose. I wish 
you could have sat and enjoyed the silvery sheen 
of the Woodsia ferns at Monksrest. On my reach- 
ing home, we sat in the shade, and the music 
of the birds, and the fluttering leaves, and the 
hot twang of the locusts. The Master reading 
an article in an old Harper's on John Bartram, 
the first American botanist : Convallaria did a 
bit of lace: Mrs. McDonald was in and out as 
her duties required : and thus it wore on unto 
sunset. The Monastery bells rang for Even- 
song, and I went. Mrs. McDonald said she could 
not leave, or she would go with me. Mr. and 
Mrs. Monroe were there and Stephen, Herbert, 
Harold and his mother, Philip and his sister 
and Harry Phillips — and they all came back with 
me. On reaching the cabin, we found Mr. and 
Mrs. Clark and Arthur, and the two Kimball 
boys who had just arrived. Mrs. McDonald was 
giving a dinner and I had not a suspicion of 



278 Mountain Walks of a Recluse. 

it. Say that a woman can't keep a secret ! I 
had seen her busy all the evening, and yet did 
not know, though the Master had smiled know- 
ingly from time to time. The Abbot and Mrs. 
Bruce and Halle came a few minutes later, and 
we sat down at that table of many feasts. How 
beautiful and chaste and quiet it looked as the 
dining-room doors were thrown open ! The great 
silver candle-sticks were lighted, and the linen 
and the silver shone like soft moonlight. The 
vases were filled with coreopsis, and at every 
place was a sprig of lavender and a half-blown 
rose. We had the first oysters of the season, 
and tomato soup, and a baked blue fish, and 
broiled chicken, a salad of tomatoes and celery, 
peach pie, peach cream, English walnuts and 
coffee. The dinner was in honour of Philip and 
Herbert, who came home in June with their 
diplomas, and on our return tO' the library, we 
drank their health in some wine that was older 
than themselves. The college boys and the Mas- 
ter and Mrs. McDonald told some delightful 
stories, and Stephen played and sang. Then we 
separated and went about as we pleased among 
the lanterns and the shadows : and Herbert had 
a scientific talk with Philip's sister that will take 
effect on the fourth finger of her left hand. All 
are gone now, 11 p. m.^ and Mrs. McDonald and 
I are having a quiet word before going to our 
rooms. 

THE END. 



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